"Not mine. Look, Hobbs, if I don't get some answers, I'm leaving you at the next corner. You can lose your cookies on the sidewalk."
The bridge rose to a gentle peak at the center of the Willamette River. Rabbit Man went over the hump and was now out of sight. I was half hoping we'd lost him, but when we reached the other side, he was waiting to make a left turn onto the street next to Jack in the Box. Maybe he'd overheard Hobbs talking about tacos.
"First,” I said, “why do you call him Rabbit Man?"
Oncoming traffic was heavy, as always, and a white Chevy truck was between us and the red car.
"You spoke with the man,” Hobbs said. “Didn't you notice anything peculiar about him?"
"Aside from the fact that he's wider than his car?"
"Yes."
"No."
"Did you not detect a particular odor about him?"
A break came, and the three-wheeler scooted onto the cross street, passed the drive-in entrance, and proceeded through the next stop sign. The driver of the truck was more timid. We waited.
"Now that you mention it, I did smell something. Dog crap."
The truck made a leisurely turn, and I had to swing almost parallel to it to avoid being hit by oncoming traffic. Hobbs squalled like a cat with a squashed tail. The truck turned into Jack in the Box and we were free to follow the Xebra. When Hobbs shifted his grip, I saw fingernail marks on the dashboard.
Hobbs said, “You were half right about the odor. It was rabbit feces. And not the feces of a single rabbit, but that of many. What does that suggest to you?"
I wrinkled my nose. “That you are even weirder than I thought."
I kept the red car in sight as it crossed railroad tracks, turned left on SE 12th, and right on Division. I let another car get between us before following. My tailing experience was limited to TV detective shows, but I'd seen a lot of them.
"So he likes rabbits,” I said. “So what?"
Traffic slowed near the entrance to the New Seasons Market. I watched to see if Rabbit Man would turn in. Maybe he was a dangerous health-food nut. But the three-wheeler zipped through the intersection, still heading east on Division.
"His automobile bears a bumper sticker promoting the Portland Alliance, a publication favored by political activists and malcontents."
"Big deal,” I said. “I'm not all that content myself."
This was definitely a health-food neighborhood. We passed a recycled-clothing store. A frumpy coffee shop. A day spa. An indoor-plant nursery. A scooter dealer. A secondhand furniture store.
The ZAP Xebra pulled to the curb in front of Do It Best Hardware. I braked quickly and found a spot half a block back, next to a haircut joint called Star Salon.
"Just as I feared,” Hobbs said.
Rabbit Man's door opened. A head and shoulder oozed out, then the rest of him popped free like Jell-O from a mold. He darted around the rear of the car and into Do It Best. Before I could ask Hobbs what nefarious purpose the guy might have, he was out of the car. “Wait here, and keep the motor running.” Then he too entered the hardware store.
I sat with my hands on the wheel, weighing my options. I was sorely tempted to cut and run. But odd as Hobbs was, I sort of liked him. He seemed to need me. And if I left him here, how would he get home?
Besides, I still needed a room. I'd been living in the back of my computer repair shop for the past five months, and my landlord had finally caught on. The space didn't meet the legal definition of a residence, and he could be fined. Unless I made other arrangements pronto, I'd be evicted.
And what if Rabbit Man was really up to no good? It would be interesting to see if crime fighting was as much fun as it looked on TV.
On the other hand, of course, Hobbs could be insane.
I was still arguing with myself when Rabbit Man emerged from Do It Best with a large, odd-shaped paper bag. Heading for his car, he glanced briefly my way, did a double-take, and stopped, staring at my Cruiser. There were many in town of the same Superman-blue color, but mine was the only one I'd seen with a spoiler. I tried to keep my face behind the rearview mirror as Rabbit Man crossed the side street and approached. A moment later he was peering through the passenger's window, his face turning purple.
Hobbs came out of the hardware-store door, saw what was happening, and slid around the corner of the store, crouching behind a line of wheelbarrows tipped on their noses against the building.
"Are you following me?” Rabbit Man's bellow was only slightly muted by the closed window. I grinned and held up two fingers in a peace sign. Barking an obscene word, he stalked to his car, squeezed back in, and pulled into traffic. I had to wait while Hobbs sprinted from concealment and jumped into my passenger seat. “After him, Doctor! Quick!"
I bolted from the curb, scooted through a yellow light at 39th, and continued up Division. We were now directly behind the Xebra. “What did he buy?"
"Wire cutters. Long-handled wire cutters. And I've no doubt he plans on using them soon."
"So?"
A Tri-Met bus had stopped ahead to load and unload. The City of Portland had adopted the annoying practice of constructing passenger peninsulas at some bus stops. These jutted several feet out into the street, so instead of buses pulling over to the curb, the curb came out to meet them. This was fine for buses, but a pain in the ass to drivers stuck behind.
As we waited, the wheelchair lift emerged from the side of the bus. I sighed. It was going to be awhile. Rabbit Man obviously knew this too, because he turned in his seat, flashed us a wicked smile, and wheeled his toy car up onto the sidewalk. People waiting to board scurried out of the way as he tooled between a telephone pole and the carbide-saw shop on the corner, turned right onto 41st, and was gone.
We sat at a corner table at Stumptown Coffee Roasters. I sipped my usual Hair Bender, a blend with hints of chocolate, toffee, caramel, and citrus. Advised that they did not serve Earl Grey tea, Hobbs settled for decaf Sumatra coffee. He said the name reminded him of a rat he once knew.
The stop was my idea. I wanted to learn more about this guy before our acquaintance went further.
"You got any name other than Hobbs?"
He pursed his lips. “I do. But I'll thank you not to address me as such.” He pronounced the name.
"How do you spell that? S-c-h-u-y ...?"
"S-k-y,” he said, “l-e-r."
It didn't sound like such a bad name to me, but I let it go. I had my laptop open, taking advantage of the free Wi-Fi. As we talked, I Googled “Skyler Hobbs.” I got four hits. One lived in Cameroon, one was three feet tall, one a Florida teenager, and the last a fictional character whose first name was Darren. None seemed connected to the man across the table. “If we'd caught up with Rabbit Man, what would you have done with him?"
"I had no desire to catch him. At least not yet.” Hobbs stirred another packet of sugar into his coffee, took a small sip, and made a face. “Whatever he plans, it will take place this very evening. I wished to be present."
"What makes you so sure something is happening tonight?"
"His copy of today's newspaper. He had been doodling in the margins, and had written several times, in bold letters, TONIGHT."
I shrugged. “Maybe he has a big date."
I pulled up another Web site. This one had a firewall, but I'd been there before and cracked it.
Hobbs shook his head. “I have made an intense study of criminal and antisocial behavior. Our Rabbit Man possesses all the characteristics of the anarchist. The wide, flaring nostrils, the quivering lips, the twitching jaw. And most telling of all, the half-mad fire of zealotry in his eyes."
I'd seen the same signs in folks waiting in line for a Star Wars movie, but didn't say so. I wanted to hear more. “Is that it? Is that all you have on the guy?"
Hobbs shook his head. “Obviously, you failed to notice his fingers. They were peculiarly white, and the skin was puckered, almost like a man who has just emerged from a long swim."
"So h
e went swimming."
"Almost like that. No, Doctor, this particular condition was caused not by water, but perspiration. Our Rabbit Man has been wearing rubber gloves for long periods at a time."
"So what does that add up to?"
"I can only suspect,” Hobbs said. “But I suspect the worst."
"Which is?"
"Since he has eluded us, that is now immaterial. What are you doing on that computer?"
"Checking eBay,” I lied. The firewall was being difficult. Since my last time in, someone had plugged the holes. I burrowed deeper, seeking an alternate route. “Why do you care what he does, anyway?"
"It is my profession. I am a consulting detective."
"Oh. My. God."
"Pardon?"
"You're really serious. You actually believe you're Sherlock Holmes."
He arched an eyebrow. “An incorrect assumption, Doctor. You really must work on that."
"And that business with the initials. Yours are S. H. Mine are J. W. That's why you're renting out that room. You're looking for Dr. Watson."
He shook his head. “I'm renting the room because I am short of funds. And I am not so deluded as to believe I am Sherlock Holmes. I am merely the reincarnation of Sherlock Holmes."
I stopped typing and stared at him. He was more than nuts. He was certifiable. “I have a similar confession. I'm actually the reincarnation of Philip Marlowe."
His face brightened. “A happy coincidence, I'm sure. You would be amazed at the number of otherwise intelligent individuals who scoff at the notion of reoccurring souls. I am not familiar with this Philip Marlowe fellow. Was he perhaps related to Christopher Marlowe, the playwright?"
"I doubt it. I think he was second cousin to Sam Spade."
Hobbs looked blank.
The Web site came alive. Computer Doctor strikes again. I filled in the blanks and punched Enter.
Hobbs's madness, I decided, appeared to be benign. He was on the side of justice, and had a burning mission in life. Lacking one of my own, I admired that. Maybe I could even borrow it.
The information I wanted filled the screen.
Hobbs slurped the last of his coffee. “Despite the failure of this afternoon's enterprise,” he said, “the offer of the room remains open. Would you care to see it now?"
"That can wait,” I said. “First, we should pay a visit to Rabbit Man."
Hobbs looked puzzled. “But how? We don't know who he is or where he lives."
"We do now.” I spun the laptop around to face him. “I ran his license number through DMV."
* * * *
Rabbit Man's real name was Daniel J. Parkinson, and he lived on SE 22nd, a couple blocks south of Clinton. Contrary to Portland's image in the national media, not everyone here munches granola and wears Birkenstocks. But certain neighborhoods do come close to the mark, and this was one of the closest. Knowing this, Hobbs had insisted we run back to his place for suitable attire.
Ninety minutes later, after leaving the car in a shady spot two blocks away, we strolled up 22nd toward the Rabbit Man residence. Hobbs wore a skin-tight suit of black and lime-green spandex, kneepads, ankle pads, fanny pack and a silver helmet shaped like a bicycle seat. My getup consisted of faded blue bib overalls over a green plaid flannel shirt, a wig of dirty blond dreadlocks, and—yes, God help me—Birkenstocks. All I needed to feel more ridiculous was a corncob pipe.
These so-called disguises had come from a musty room in Hobbs's basement. He had, he said proudly, spent years haunting garage sales and thrift stores, and could now blend seamlessly into any neighborhood in the city.
Rabbit Man's street was lined with houses of 1930s vintage, most having undergone a hodgepodge of improvements and renovations. The majority had a second story, or at least a dormer, a narrow driveway, and a garage. Each yard had a good-sized birch, beech, or fir tree and an assortment of flowers and shrubs.
The telltale odor of rabbits attacked our nostrils from half a block away, and grew steadily stronger as we neared our destination. Passing Rabbit Man's house, where I spotted the little ZAP Xebra at the rear of the driveway, I had to hold my breath. It was only on our third turn down the street that Hobbs was able to pinpoint the source of the smell—the backyard of the house next-door. As this house occupied a corner lot, we proceeded around the side. An eight-foot fence prevented our seeing anything, but we did hear telltale scratching and scurrying sounds.
On our next pass down 22nd, I spotted Rabbit Man himself peering from an upstairs window overlooking the yard where the rabbits were apparently kept. Further observation proved this to be a separate apartment with its own entrance off the driveway.
Hobbs still refused to say what crime he believed was being hatched in Rabbit Man's brain, or what he expected to do about it. I tried another subject. “You make much of a living at this consulting detective business?"
Hobbs was quiet for so long I thought he was ignoring me. When he finally spoke his voice was hushed. “Actually, Doctor, this is my first case."
I was surprisingly unsurprised. “So you have another job?"
"I did. At Powell's."
"Powell's Books? You quit that for this?"
"To tell the truth, I was terminated. I fear the books proved too great a temptation, and I was caught one too many times."
My jaw dropped. “You were stealing books?"
"Certainly not! I was reading them, when I should have been pricing or shelving. I understand there were also numerous customer complaints. Apparently some took offense at my small observations regarding their various professions, dispositions, and recent activities."
"I see,” I said, and did. Telling people truths about themselves was no way to win friends. “Let me guess. This all happened three months ago."
He gave me a peculiar look. “And how did you reach that conclusion?"
"Your unemployment just ran out. That's why you need a housemate."
He smiled, a bit sadly. “Your reasoning is good, Doctor, but you are not in possession of all the facts. I did indeed place the advertisement for the room when my unemployment eligibility expired, but that was nearly a year ago."
I stared at him. “You've been running that ad for a year with no takers?"
He looked at his feet. “I fear I was not altogether honest at the coffee establishment. As you have already observed, I screened the applicants quite carefully. Your assertion that I was seeking Dr. Watson was correct. I could hardly consider beginning my new profession without him.” He looked me full in the face then, and I had another peek behind the mask. His ego was really quite fragile. He needed his Watson, and truly believed he'd found him.
I wasn't sure how I felt about that. I was my own person, with my own career, my own destiny to pursue. Playing sidekick to a lunatic was not part of the plan.
We walked in silence until the sun dipped behind the trees. Rabbit Man did not come out of his apartment, and I still didn't know what to do about Hobbs.
* * * *
Three hours later, we sat in my Cruiser, four doors down and across the street, where Hobbs could keep watch on Rabbit Man's lighted window. He'd produced a small telescope from his fanny pack, and seemed to find great enjoyment in extending it once every five minutes, announcing that nothing was happening, and snapping it shut.
I was beyond bored. I was hungry. My butt hurt from sitting. “He's not coming out. I think it's time we pack it in."
"We cannot,” Hobbs said. “It is imperative we remain at our station until Mr. Parkinson makes his move."
"What move? Just what do you expect him to do?"
"Employ his new wire cutters, of course."
"For what?"
"That,” he said, “is what I intend to learn."
We had talked. Sort of. Hobbs, I'd learned, knew absolutely nothing about politics, and very little about sports. He had heard, in passing, of the Portland Trail Blazers, but assumed they were a cricket club. He had never heard of Lost, Desperate Housewives, or American Idol
. As he had an affinity for things British, I asked what he thought of The Beatles. He launched into a lecture on the use of poisonous insects, beginning with the African leaf beetle, used by African bushmen to manufacture deadly arrowheads, touching on lady beetles and blister beetles, and ending with one called the bombardier, able to squirt hot enzymes from its anus with the skill of an archer.
Following this, I'd tried the radio—a little Trance Formation on KINK, Jukebox Saturday Night on KMHD, The Mark Lindsay Show on K-Hits. Hobbs had dismissed it all as noise. He'd shown momentary interest in a discussion of car-free cities on KBOO, but I switched it off. Even silence was preferable to that.
Shortly after 11:00 p.m. four young men came out of the corner house, piled into a black-and-gold Honda Element, and drove off up the street. Hobbs paid them no particular attention.
I was about to tell him I'd had enough when the lights of a vehicle filled my rearview mirror. The lights went out almost immediately, and a beat-up Ford panel van, running dark, crept slowly past us. The van eased to a stop, engine still idling, before Rabbit Man's driveway. The second-story window light winked out.
Less than a minute later a thickset figure emerged from the driveway and entered the passenger side of the van. The van rolled slowly past the corner house, turned, and disappeared from view.
I was about to start the ignition when Hobbs whispered, “Wait. They shan't go far."
How he knew this I couldn't guess, but it was his party.
"They've stopped just around the block. I need a better vantage point.” He slipped from the car and ran lightly to the corner. I couldn't help myself. I joined him.
The panel van was parked near the far end of the fence. I saw nothing else, but Hobbs's concentration was so fierce I felt electricity in the air. After a minute or two I heard intermittent snapping sounds, almost like someone stepping on twigs.
"What's that?"
"Wire, of course. And wire cutters.” After two or three more minutes of this, Hobbs said, “Here they come."
The rear of the van was in deep shadow, but I heard the creak of doors and made out two dark figures struggling with a bulky object. They went away, and were soon back to repeat the process. They made a total of six trips, after which the two figures climbed into the van. The engine coughed to life.
EQMM, February 2010 Page 12