The Goat

  The line went dead. The receiver was still propped to Basil’s head. He stood there for a minute weighing the options; recognizing that the probability of catching and finding a true were-goat was rather low. It was a man in a suit, or some deformed criminal. It had to be. Was this worth his job? it wasn't an easy decision, could everyone else be right? Could he be wrong?

  The deliberation led him to succumb to orders. Basil retreated to his car. The gas pump had cut off early only dropping in a couple of liters. Basil ignored the machine's error and hung up those hose, defeated. He dragged his feet as he entered the station.

  “Just the gas, aye?” The attendant asked as basil approached the counter. He was an older man with a short fluffy grey and black beard.

  “Yeah,” he set his funds on the counter with his head drooped. Below him he noted the selection of candies. To his left were all the magazines, to his right the tabloids and papers.

  The photo on the cover of the National News Poster grabbed his attention. He lifted the paper and stared at the captured image, saddened further. The captain probably thought it was him that leaked the photo.

  “Dang thing's real you know, aye.”

  “What makes you say that?” Basil flipped the paper open to the fold out, which contained more photos, all just a blurry as the video, highlighted and circled. Experts had been consulted and were quoted saying the beast was the great find of our time.

  “He’s a drinker, too. Think he left about twenty minutes ago.”

  “Who, this man?” Basil dropped the paper on the counter, pointing to the image of the were-goat bonking the man at his computer in Larry’s.

  “That's no man. Freaky looking hands. He was wearing a mask, aye.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Unless Michael Jackson moved in nearby, I’d say yeah, aye.”

  Basil didn’t grab his change. He spun from the counter and made like a wolf to the car. With a grimace on his face he turned the key, and peeled out from the gas station.

  Chapter 50

  “Seventy-four, hic, seventy, seventy-four, oh god,” Frank had been singing a rather childish song Sparky had not heard before. It had contained the same verse starting with ninety-nine and counting down to seventy-four bottles of beer. Frank looked like he was finally too sick to continue.

  “Seventy-four bottles of, oh no,” Frank tried to stick his head out the window and crashed into it instead.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Open the window,” he put his paws to his mouth. “Pull over!”

  The truck skidded to a halt. Sparky leaned across and opened the door for the dog. Frank started vomiting right away, his head just barely clear of the truck.

  Sparky jumped out of the cab of the pick-up, disgusted by the sight. He grabbed his coat, wrapping it tightly to shield out the cold night air.

  “Don’t ask me to buy any more beer if this is what you plan to do with it.”

  Frank tried to lift his head to respond, but could not. The venomous drinks were still overflowing from his system.

  Sparky kicked at a rock on the roadside. He started humming, trying to cover the sounds of his friend.

  “Are you done yet?”

  “Yeah,” Frank groaned.

  Sparky turned back to the truck.

  “No!” Frank once again started spilling more of the poisons onto the roadside.

  Sparky took a few more steps down the road, still humming his tune.

  He looked up to the night sky. It had been too long since he had been able to just sit and look upon it. His thoughts turn to the farm, lying in the grass at night with his Princess. Together they would just roll on the hillside. No worries, no fears.

  He closed his eyes and was there by her side. He wrapped his arms around her tightly. Living in her warm embrace, feeling the soft tuft of her cheek, all of her sweet smells, spinning together in the grass, waiting for the moon to rise.

  Sparky opened his eyes and he lowered his head. No moon tonight. He kicked another stone, resuming his hum.

  “I think I’m done!” Frank waddled from around the side of the truck. “I think I could use a napkin and something to clean my teeth.”

  “A toothbrush?”

  “Nah, some steak or something, I don’t want them that clean,” his red eyes traveled up to the sullen goat.

  Sparky thought back to the time he had been on his journey without Frank. The loneliness. The scene tonight reminded him of when he found the mangy mutt. That night was not much different than how they were now, except for Frank's illness. Sparky stood over Frank. Despite the terrible smell, the goat was able to muster a smile at his sickly companion. Frank looked up at him with a swollen expression.

  Suddenly there were the glaring headlights of a passing car followed by the squealing of its brakes.

  Sparky was jolted from his reverie. The car pulled in, directly in front of his truck. The driver climbed out of the car and slammed the door closed. They were standing in the red glow of the pickups tail lights.

  “Sparky?” The shadowed figure called out.

  It was too dark to see a face. Sparky waved Frank away. Frank looked at his companion strangely at first and then circled behind the truck to avoid being seen.

  “Is that you?” The man stepped closer.

  Sparky thought over his contact with people, who he had seen, met, spoke with, given his name. It wasn’t in the tabloids, the kids at the shop never heard it. There was Gus, and there was Fat Jack. He caught the flicker of metal in the man’s hand, a weapon. Fat Jack.

  “You caused me a ton a problems, goat.”

  Sparky retreated another step.

  “Fat Jack?”

  “What?” Basil was taken aback, he hadn’t heard that name mentioned before. He thought through his files, nothing came to mind.

  “Who?” Basil stepped level with the rear of stolen truck, the red glow exposing his face. The man's hard eyes were framed by a thick five o'clock shadow.

  Sparky looked him over. Maybe Fat Jack was connected? The criminal must have sent this man to kill him. Another homeless employee; like he had been. Sparky’s eyes sharpened around the shadow of Frank sneaking up behind the stranger.

  “Who are you?” Sparky asked.

  Basil could easily see that the creature in front of him was much more goat than human, but it stood upright casually. His horns sticking from his head, his body loosely wrapped in a dark overcoat. Surprise filled him, he had expected to be right, but this was beyond his own imagination.

  “I’m a special agent with the Canadian Bureau of Investigation. Basil Lain. It is a pleasure to meet you.”

  Frank was close behind the agent, within striking distance.

  “What’s with the gun?” Sparky asked.

  “This is standard, but I shouldn’t need this with you, right?”

  “Standard?” Sparky chuckled. He looked down to Frank who still was prepared to strike, but he wasn’t moving. “Well I don’t carry one, I think they’re brutal. I would rather have something like an attack dog.”

  Frank still didn’t spring.

  “Yeah, I heard about you adopting a pet,” Basil chuckled. “If you’re ready, we can go.”

  “You’re going to let me leave?”

  “You are coming with me. I’ll take you where we need to go.”

  “Look, I’m kind of in a hurry.” Sparky took a step forward, unwilling to wait any longer for Frank. “I need to find some people.”

  “You can tell me all about Reilly when we get back to the office. We’ll search for your friends together. I’m sure it will be our first priority,”

  With every word Sparky became more certain Basil was only going to hurt him. The goat refused to be fooled.

  “No, I’d rather take my own car.”

  “It’s not yours, Sparky, it’s stolen.”

  Sparky took another step in. Basil raised the gun. “Don’t do it.”

  Basil cocked the hammer. Sparky
held still, he again looked to Frank; it appeared he was moving again, but Sparky couldn’t tell what he was doing.

  “Can’t we work this out another way?”

  “No,” Basil was hesitant; he hadn’t wanted to be enemies with the were-goat. His mind moved beyond the arrest, Basil started working through the marketing potential. “But I promise to give you every comfort I can.” Basil wouldn’t surrender to the animal’s whims. He was in control. He had the gun.

  Frank had been trying to seize an opportunity to attack the stranger, but he had gotten caught up in a battle with another enemy. His stomach. His belly had again turned on him with a vengeance, and sneaking past his own pile of vomit had done nothing to help the situation. He was crouched not a foot away, trying to get the balance he needed to spring on the man. He gathered his wits and made his move.

  Frank leapt from his hiding spot, completely missing his mark. He collided head first with Basil’s right leg, and immediately his stomach gave up. Frank spilled another load upon the detective's polished shoes. Basil turned and pointed the gun at Frank.

  “You sick bastard!”

  Basil fired, Frank screamed.

  Sparky clobbered Basil, tackling him to the ground and raking Basil's face across the gravel. Basil rolled over and vaulted Sparky into the truck. The man scurried in the darkness, searching madly for his gun. His hands slid under the truck, Basil knew it was close.

  “Are you looking for something?” Sparky asked.

  Basil looked up from the ground. Sparky's face was dark; the guns in the goats hand shimmered in the red glow of the taillight.

  Chapter 51

  Sparky had wrapped the wounded dog in Basil’s coat. The two now raced down the highway in the detective's sedan.

  “I can’t believe that he shot you.” Sparky split his attention between his injured companion and he road. The dog's need for medical attention was unclear.

  “You can’t? You want to see the wound again?” Frank stuttered as he spoke. “I’m cold, I’m so cold.”

  Sparky looked over, “Then put your head back in the window.”

  “It’s not as much fun! These electric windows are so easy to use!” The dog's face and paws were perched in the open window.

  “You don’t sound like you’re in a lot of pain.”

  “Shall I shoot you? We should have plenty of bullets left,” Frank pulled the gun up from the floor of the car with his clumsy paws then pointed it Sparky. “Bang!”

  “That’s not funny, Frank,” he pushed the gun down with his hoof. “Where did you put my coffee?”

  “I thought you got it?”

  “You forgot the coffee?” Sparky bit at his upper lip. “Now we need gauze and coffee.”

  “Maybe you should have checked that guy for money, what was his name?”

  “Basil something. He said he was a detective, he wanted to take me in.”

  “I thought you said he worked for that one guy you beat up?” Frank’s eyes strayed to the back seat; there sat a small, black and neatly sealed duffle bag.

  “I can't be sure of any of these people." Sparky confirmed he was driving at a legal pace as they passed a sign. "I don’t trust him. He could work for Fat Jack, he could be a detective.”

  "He could be animal control."

  "What?" Sparky asked. The roaring wind had obscured the dog's word.

  “Never mind. It's hard for me to guess. People love to get revenge. It’s their favorite thing besides Christmas,” Frank settled back into his seat and pulled off his coat, “Hey, I think I stopped bleeding!”

  There no blood in the stolen coat or on the scratch. Between his matted fur there was a scrape where the bullet has passed over his side, braising his skin. It appeared to be a lot smaller wound than what Sparky had remembered.

  “You sure did scream a lot about that for as small as it is.”

  “I still have the gun, you want to feel it?” Frank again put his paw on the pistol sitting between them.

  “No, I’m good. You should put that away, I don’t want you playing with it.”

  Frank grabbed the pistol and slid it back under his seat.

  “Well at least we don’t need to get you to a hospital,” Sparky watched as Frank hobbled over the seat into the back of the car. “What are you doing?”

  “He’s got a bag, it’s not like he’ll need it.”

  Sparky watched Frank in the mirror, chuckling as he bumbled with the zipper.

  “You think this is hilarious, don’t you? Injured dog pawing at the little black bag. Boo hoo hoo!”

  Sparky erupted in roaring laughter. His eyes watered as the dog made sour faces at him from the mirror.

  “You think my pain is funny?”

  “Yes,” Sparky said, catching his breath. “I think you are a very funny dog.”

  Frank raised his paw in anger, saddened that he had no middle finger to complete the gesture. Sparky had already turned his attention back to the road.

  Frank grabbed the bag’s zipper in his teeth and yanked. The metal clasp yielded. He wriggled it the rest of the way, leveraging his front paws into the opening to brace the bag. He was forced to draw in a breath as he finally spread the flaps open, feeling the strain of his recent wound as he stretched. He made an audible groan, then looked up to see if it had been noticed.

  Sparky had his eyes on the road.

  Frank went back to Basil's bag. He sorted out the clothes on top, throwing them out onto the seat.

  “Don’t make a mess.” Sparky instructed.

  “Why not?”

  “Never mind, it’s a reflex from having four kids.”

  “Hey looks like we found something.” Frank was sticking his entire face in the bag. “It’s a big wad of papers. He’s got your pictures and everything!”

  “What?” Sparky leaned over to see. Banded together were several folders filled with papers.

  “I think this is your police file,” Frank pulled the stack. It slipped through his paws. Papers spilled out all over the rear of the car.

  “That confirms the detective story. Don’t ruin it, I want to know what they have on me. Is there any money in there?”

  “No. What happened to the rest of that cash you had? We had plenty when you stopped for beer.”

  “I thought so, too. It must have fallen out of my coat when I was wrestling with Basil.”

  “Definitely no cash in here.”

  “Great, and this car is going to need gas soon,” the goat looked down at the needle. It was hovering just above the little red E on the indicator.

  “He’s got more bullets in here. He must have figured you were a werewolf or something,” he kept pawing through the bag, leaving the scattered papers where they were.

  “Hey, are you going to clean up those papers? I don’t want them getting torn up.”

  “Sure, Dad, let me get right on that with my opposable thumbs,” Frank turned to him and sneered. “Do you know how hard it is to pick up paper?”

  Sparky didn’t answer. His mind was more focused on the fact that they were out of money.

  “Maybe we should just get some sleep and try and figure something out tomorrow. We have been pushing hard.” the Frank offered.

  “We’re almost there Frank, we can’t stop now.”

  “Just for a bit until we find some way to get the money together. We need to make sure that goof doesn’t find us.”

  “It’s going to take him a while to catch us.”

  As he spoke the light on the dashboard came on reinforcing their need to refuel. Sparky’s stomach bubbled at him angrily; he remembered that other than coffee he had not eaten anything in some time. And despite the coffee he had been consuming, he was still getting tired. He would be no good finding his family too tired to rescue them.

  “Okay, we find a place to stop.”

  Chapter 52

  “Good job, Valerie.”

  Reilly’s sour voice stung her ears. She had prayed for a merciful or u
nmerciful death to befall him at the hands of their employer, the doctor. It was not the scene she expected when she entered the facility; his wide yellowed teeth grin.

  The lady flipped her hair. It was not worth it to give him a vocal response. She had had the doctor’s word that she wouldn’t have to deal with Reilly again. Valerie turned her attention to the more important matter of the large goat-filled cage.

  “You look surprised to see me.” Reilly was bouncing on his toes staring down at the dark-haired woman. “Dr. Fudge sends his regards. I wanted to of course thank you for personally delivering the animals to me on time.”

  “What’s all this about?” She was red in the cheeks.

  “He wants me working this end of it now. I guess he’s gotten tied up in another project. He sincerely apologizes. But I promised I’d break it to you gently.”

  “I can’t believe this.” Valerie scurried away, not all that dissatisfied to be free of managing the stinky beasts for the time being.

  Reilly studied the goats all together in the giant pen that had been constructed for them while they were en route. He was satisfied to see the animals in their place; trapped in a cage, spirits broken. It was all he could do not to uncork on the champagne.

  “Alright guys, we need to sort these goats out. Males need to be put in the single cages; the females and kids are going two to a cage.”

  “Are we doing this by hand?” one of the men asked.

  “We’re not just doing this by hand but anyone caught hurting these fine animals will be thrown in a cage themselves,” Reilly lifted his left arm. “These are special orders coming straight down from the top.” His left arm swung across clapping his right hand. “And we’re going to get this done right.”

  Valerie watched them from across the room, seated on a loose crate, cigarette in hand. What was the doctor thinking? She shuddered for a moment wondering if he had discovered her double cross. She couldn’t wait for the sun to rise. She needed to put the nail in the coffin now. If Fudge knew what she was up to she’d be dead by morning, unless she had leverage. She took another drag off of her cigarette and hopped off the crate.

  “Knock it off!” Reilly interrupted one of the men who had just been kicked in the shins a few times by one of the larger stags. The man had turned around and was running after the goat with a thirst for revenge. “You don’t want to live in a cage!”

  One by one, or two by two, they were being sorted. Reilly paced along the giant pen towards the gate the workers were passing through to load the cages. A second group of men were moving the small cages into place for the animals and hauling them off when loaded.