Sick Puppy

  Baby's in the swimming pool.

  Momma took some pills.

  There's a stranger at the bedroom window.

  And yet, somehow, somebody makes it to a telephone and phones for help.

  To Mr. Gash, this was better than theater, better than literature, better than music. True life is what it was; true life unspooling. He never tired of the 911 tapes. He even redubbed his favorites and set them to classical music—Mahler for domestic disputes, Tchaikovsky for cardiac arrests, and so on.

  The emergency tapes kept his mind off the grinding traffic, and he listened to them all the way to Toad Island, the morning after he'd roughed up Palmer Stoat. For the long drive north, Mr. Gash had selected the Best-of-House-Fire Calls, with background accompaniment by Shostakovich.

  dispatcher: Is there an emergency?

  caller: Hurry! My house is on fire! It's on fire!

  dispatcher: Where are you, sir?

  caller: Inside! Inside the house!

  dispatcher: Where inside the house?

  caller: The bedroom, I'm pretty sure! Hurry, man, it's all on fire! Everything!

  dispatcher: The trucks are on the way—

  caller: I was basing under the Christmas tree, see—

  dispatcher: Sir, you need to exit the dwelling immediately.

  caller: Freebasing, see? And somehow, man, I don't know what happened but all of a sudden there's a flash and the tree's lit up, I mean big-time. Next thing, all the Christmas presents, they're on fire, too, and before long the whole scene is smoke...

  dispatcher: Sir, you need to get out of the house immediately. Right now.

  caller: You hurry, that's the main thing. Hurry! 'Cause I don't have a goddamn clue where "out" is. You understand what I'm saying. I am one lost mother[bleeper], OK?

  The tapes were aural tapestry to Mr. Gash. From a lone scream he could fully visualize the interior of a house, its bare halls and cluttered bedrooms; the faded carpets and the functional furniture, the oversized paintings and tense-looking family photographs. And of course he could see the orange flames licking at the walls.

  "Ouch," he said aloud as he drove.

  Toad Island was the logical place to start hunting for the man he was supposed to murder. Possibly the fellow lived there, or at least must have visited the place. Why else would he give two shits about Robert Clapley's bridge?

  Mr. Gash's first stop was the home of Nils Fishback, the island's self-crowned "mayor" and Clapley's onetime political adversary. Clapley had told Mr. Gash it was Fishback who'd know the inside dope on any malcontents among the residents.

  "Get off my damn property!" was Nils Fishback's intemperate greeting to Mr. Gash.

  "Mr. Clapley sent me."

  "What for?" Fishback demanded. "What's with the hair, jocko—you from England or somethin'?"

  The old man was stationed on the front lawn. He was shoeless and shirtless, a bandanna knotted around his neck. The bandanna was milky yellow, as was Fishback's long beard and also his toenails. He appeared not to have bathed for some time.

  "Can't you tell I'm busy?" Fishback pointed at a moving van in the driveway. Two beefy men were lugging a long plaid sofa up the ramp to the truck.

  Mr. Gash said: "This'll only take a minute."

  "I don't have a minute."

  "What you don't have," said Mr. Gash, "is manners."

  He intercepted the two movers and advised them to take a thirty-minute break. Then he grabbed Nils Fishback by one of his bony elbows and dragged him into the house and tied his ankles and wrists with a Dacron curtain sash and pushed him into a bathtub. After a short search Mr. Gash found a bar of Dial antiperspirant soap, untouched, which he forcefully inserted into Fishback's mouth.

  "You probably feel like puking," Mr. Gash said, "but of course you can't."

  From the tub Fishback stared up with wild, horsey eyes.

  "Here's what I need from you," said Mr. Gash. He was hovering, a gun held loosely in one hand.

  "There's a man causing Mr. Clapley lots of grief over the new bridge. What I need to know, 'Mr. Mayor,' is who would do something like this? Somebody out here on the island is my guess. Some creep trying to squeeze more money from my good friend Mr. Clapley."

  Nils Fishback shook his head frantically. Mr. Gash laughed. He had been made aware of Fishback's lucrative real estate sellout. "Oh, I know it's not you," he told the old man. "From what I hear, you got no complaints. You made out like a bandit on this deal."

  Now Fishback was nodding. Mr. Gash set the handgun on the toilet seat and took out a penknife, which he used to pry the cake of Dial from Fishback's mouth. The soap came out embedded with expensive porcelain bridge-work. Immediately the mayor wriggled upright and began vomiting in his own lap. Mr. Gash turned on the shower, picked up his gun and left the bathroom.

  When Nils Fishback emerged, he was the consummate host, all southern graciousness and hospitality. He fixed fresh coffee and powdered doughnuts for Mr. Gash, and told him of a rumor going around the island.

  "About a guy who works for Roothaus, Clapley's engineering firm. This guy's all—what is it they say these days?—conflicted about his job. He's been getting drunked up at night, roamin' around saying it's a damn crime, what Clapley's set to do to this island."

  "Crime?" Mr. Gash was amused.

  "Crime against nature, the young man said. I believe he's some kind a biologist." Nils Fishback paused to readjust his dental bridge. Slivers of orange soap were visible between his front teeth.

  He said, "Tree-hugger type, that's the rumor."

  "But he works for Roothaus," said Mr. Gash, "who works for Clapley. Ha!" Mr. Gash knit his brow. "What ever happened to good old-fashioned loyalty? This is excellent coffee, by the way."

  Fishback said: "Thanks. The young fella's name is Brinkman or Brickman. Somethin' like that. They say he's a doctor of biology."

  "I appreciate the information."

  Fishback fingered his sodden beard apprehensively. "Keep in mind, it's only a rumor. I don't wanna see nobody get hurt, because there might be nothin' to it. People say all kinds a crazy shit when they drink."

  Mr. Gash rose and handed his empty cup to Fishback. "Well, these sorts of stories need to be checked out. Where you moving to, Mayor?"

  "Vegas."

  "Whoa. Land of opportunity."

  "No, it's just I got sinus problems." Mr. Gash smiled encouragingly. "You'll love it there."

  Krimmler had warned Dr. Steven Brinkman to curtail his drinking, but it wasn't easy. Brinkman was depressed so much of the time. He had nearly completed the biological survey of Toad Island without documenting one endangered species. That was splendid tidings for Roger Roothaus and Robert Clapley, but not for the remaining wildlife; not for the ospreys or the raccoons, not for the gray squirrels or the brown tree snails, not for the whip-tailed lizards or the western sandpipers. Because now, Brinkman knew, there was no way to block the Shearwater resort. The creeps who'd bulldozed the tiny oak toads would do the same to all other creatures in their path, and no law or authority could stop them. So Dr. Brinkman's exhaustively detailed catalog of Toad Island's birds, mammals, reptiles, amphibians, insects and flora was for all practical purposes a death list, or that's how the young biologist had come to think of it. Sometimes, at night, he would sneak into the construction trailer to brood over the impressive Shearwater mock-up—how verdant and woody the layout looked in miniature! But Brinkman knew it was an illusion created by those two immense golf courses—a wild, rolling splash of green rimmed by houses and condos, a chemical hue of emerald found nowhere in nature. And the suckers were lining up to buy! Occasionally Brinkman would crouch by the scale model in mordant contemplation of Clapley's "nature trail"—a linear quarter-mile trek through a scraggle of pines at the north hook of the island. And there was the scenic little saltwater creek, for kayaks and canoes. In the mock-up the creek was painted sky blue, but in real life (Brinkman knew) the water would be tea-colored and silted. A school of mullet would be
cause for great excitement. Meanwhile Clapley's people would be leveling hundreds of acres for home-sites, parking lots, the airstrip, the heliport and that frigging shooting range; they'd be dredging pristine estuary for the yacht harbor and water-sports complex and desalinization plants. Along the beach rose the dreaded high-rises; on the model, each sixteen-story tower was the size of a pack of Marlboro mediums.

  Steven Brinkman felt awful about his complicity in the Shearwater juggernaut, and about his career calling in general. Go with the private sector—that's what his old man had advised him. His old man, who'd spent twenty-six years with the U.S. Forest Service and had nothing positive to say about government work. If I had it to do all over again, he'd grumble, I'd jump on that job with the timber company. Private sector, son, all the way!

  And though it was the handsome salary that had induced Steven Brinkman to sign on with Roger Roothaus, he also honestly thought he could make a difference. Fresh out of school, he naively believed it was possible to find middle ground between the granola-head bunny lovers and the ruthless corporate despoilers. He believed science and common sense could bring both sides together, believed wholeheartedly in the future of "environmental engineering."

  Then they put him to work counting butterflies and toads and field mice. And before long, Brinkman was also counting the days until he could go home. He didn't want to be on Toad Island when the clearing started. And he would never return afterward, to see if it ended up looking like the scale model.

  For living quarters, Roothaus had provided a secondhand Winnebago but Steven Brinkman rarely used it, choosing instead to sleep under the stars in the doomed woods. Here he could drink recklessly without drawing Krimmler's ire. Most evenings he'd build a campfire and play R.E.M. on the small boom box that his sister had given him. The locals had long ago pegged Brinkman as a flake, and let him be.

  Rarely was his outdoor solitude interrupted by anything noisier than a hoot owl, so he was therefore surprised to see a stocky stranger clomping into his camp. The man's blond hair was eccentrically spiked, but it was the houndstooth suit that put Brinkman on edge, even after half a quart of Stoli.

  "I'm looking for a dog," the man announced, in a voice that was almost soothing.

  Brinkman tottered to his feet. "Who're you?"

  "A black Labrador retriever is what I'm looking for."

  Brinkman shrugged. "No dog here."

  "Possibly with one ear cut off. I don't suppose you'd know anything about that."

  "No—"

  In a flash the man pinned him against the trunk of a pine tree. "I work for Mr. Robert Clapley," he said.

  "Me, too," said Brinkman. "What's the matter with you?"

  "Are you Steven Brinkman?"

  "Dr. Brinkman. Yeah, now—"

  "The troublemaker?"

  Brinkman struggled to break free. "What? I'm a field biologist."

  The spiky-haired man grabbed him by the throat. "Where's the goddamn dog, Doctor?"

  Brinkman spluttered a protest but Clapley's man knocked him down with a punch to the gut. "Jesus, you don't know what I'm talking about," the man said disgustedly. He kicked through the campsite, swearing. "You don't have the goddamn dog. You're not the one."

  "No." Brinkman was on his knees, gasping.

  "But you're still a troublemaker. Mr. Clapley doesn't like troublemakers." The man took out a pistol. "And you're trashed on top of it. Not good."

  Brinkman fearfully threw up his dirt-smeared palms. "There was a guy here, a couple days ago. He had a black Lab."

  "Go on." The man brushed a moth off his lapel.

  "On the beach. Guy my age. Very tan. He had a big black Lab."

  "How many ears?"

  "Two, I think." Brinkman was pretty sure he would've remembered otherwise.

  "What else, doctor?"

  The man placed the gun to Brinkman's temple. Brinkman had been drinking so heavily that he couldn't even pee in his pants, couldn't make neurotransmitter contact with his own bladder.

  He said, "The guy drove a black pickup truck. And there was a woman."

  "What'd she look like?"

  "Beautiful," Brinkman said. "Outstanding." The Stoli was kicking in magnificently.

  The spiky-haired man whacked him with the butt of the pistol. " 'Beautiful' covers a lot of territory, doesn't it?"

  Brinkman tried to collect himself. He felt a warm bubble of blood between his eyebrows. "She was a brunette, in her early thirties. Hair so long"—Brinkman, using both hands to indicate the length—"and the dog seemed to be hers. The Lab."

  "So they weren't, like, a couple."

  "Is it Mr. Clapley's dog? Those people—did they steal it?"

  The man in the checked suit smirked. "Do I look like a person who wastes his time chasing lost pets? Seriously? Would I need a gun for that? Here, whistle dick, have another drink."

  He shoved the Stoli bottle at Steven Brinkman, who took a swig and pondered what the blond man had said. He was a professional killer, of course. Clapley had sent him to the island to murder somebody, over something to do with a dog. Brinkman was too drunk to find it anything but hilarious, and he began to giggle.

  The man said, "Shut up and tell me the guy's name."

  "He never said." Again Brinkman felt the cold poke of the gun barrel against his temple.

  "They never gave their names. Neither one," he told the spiky-haired man. "Why would I lie?"

  "I intend to find out."

  Then, as sometimes happened with vodka, Steven Brinkman experienced a precipitous mood plunge. He remembered that he'd sort of liked the tan young man and the outstandingly beautiful woman with the friendly black dog. They had seemed entirely sympathetic and properly appalled about what was happening out here; the burying of the toads, for instance. Not everyone cared about toads.

  And now here I am, Brinkman thought morosely, ratting them out to some punk-headed hit man. Just like I ratted out Bufo quercicus to Krimmler. Ratted out the whole blessed island. What a cowardly dork I am! Brinkman grieved.

  "The name," said the killer. "I'm counting to six."

  "Six?" Brinkman blurted.

  "It's a lucky number for me. Three is another good one," the killer said. "Want me to count to three instead? One... two... "

  Brinkman wrapped one hand around the gun barrel. "Look, I don't know the guy's name, but I know where he's camping tonight."

  "That would be progress." Clapley's man holstered the gun and motioned for Brinkman to lead the way.

  The biologist picked up a gas lantern and set off through the woods, though not stealthily. He was exceedingly tipsy and barely able to hoist his feet, much less direct them on a course. As he plowed ahead, pinballing off tree trunks and stumbling through scrub, Brinkman heard the blond stranger cursing bitterly from behind. Undoubtedly the pine boughs and thorny vines were taking a nappy toll on the houndstooth suit.

  Brinkman's idea—it would hardly qualify as a plan—was to tromp along until he found a clearing in which he could wheel around and clobber Clapley's man with the lantern. Only fine vodka could have imbued Brinkman with such grandiose estimations of his own strength and agility, but the anger in his heart was true and untainted. The spiky-headed intruder had become an ideally crude and lethal symbol for Shearwater and its attendant evils. Wouldn't it be cool to knock out the bastard and turn him over to the cops? And then? Sit back and watch Robert Clapley squirm,, trying to explain such shenanigans to the media—a hired thug with a gun, turned loose to hunt down "troublemakers" on the island! Brinkman grinned, somewhat prematurely, at the headline.

  Suddenly he found himself stepping out of the pines and into a broad opening, which filled with the lantern's pale yellow light. Brinkman saw squat machines, furrows and mounds of dry dirt—and, beneath his boots, a corrugated track. He knew where he was; a good place to do it, too. He gulped for the cool salty air and quickened his pace.

  "Hey, shithead." It was Clapley's man.

  Dr. Brinkman didn't turn
all the way around, but from the corner of an eye he spotted the shadow—a flickery figure projected by lantern light on the blade of a bulldozer, like a puppet on a wall.

  "Hey, you think this is funny?"

  Clapley's man, striding faster now, coming up behind him. Dr. Brinkman deliberately slowed his pace, laboring to clear the buzz from his head, straining to gauge the proximity of the killer's footsteps, knowing the timing of this grand move had to be absolutely flawless... flawless timing, unfortunately, not being a typical side effect of massive vodka consumption.

  So that when Steven Brinkman spun and swung the hefty lantern, Clapley's man was still five yards from reaching him, and safely out of range. Centrifugal physics whirled Brinkman almost 360 degrees, an involuntary rotation halted only by the force of the lantern striking the tire of a four-ton backhoe. Brinkman saw a white-pink flash and then a bright blue flash, heard one sharp pop and then another louder one—the lantern exploding, followed by something else. Brinkman went down in darkness, finding it fascinating (in a way that only a drunk man could) to feel the onrushing dampness of his own blood yet no pain from the bullet. He tried to run without getting up, his legs cycling haplessly in the dirt until he was breathless.