Bones in Her Pocket: A Tempe Brennan E-Short (5 page)

C
OME ON. COME ON.

No go. I got Slidell’s voicemail. Left a message. Disconnected and finger-drummed the counter.

Debated.

What the hell?

I googled for the number at the Gaston PD. Dialed. Made my request, wishing I had a last name. Listened to a number of clicks.

A voice I assumed to be Skip’s asked for a message.

I hung up and drummed some more. Antsy. Ready to roll.

The dog hair on Edith came from two breeds, Rottweiler and cocker spaniel. Herman Blount had a Rottweiler. Blount was out of pocket.

Too agitated to sit still, I stripped off my gear and changed to street clothes. After leaving another less polite message for Slidell, I hurried to my car.

Traveling the now-familiar route to Mountain Island Lake, I considered how to find Blount. No way I’d tramp through woods peering into underground pods. I’d ask around, see if anyone knew Blount’s habits, his hangouts. I’d start at the raptor center.

I reviewed facts as I drove. Edith Blankenship knew Blount. Blount was attractive, charismatic in a Charles Manson sort of way. Blount and Edith shared a love of birds and a hatred of utility companies that harmed them. Jack Olsen thought Edith had someone new in her life.

Blount cherished his freedom. Would he eliminate a person who threatened it? Or had it been a lovers quarrel? An accident? Eco-terror gone awry?

Other factors could account for the pattern of trauma in Edith’s vertebral column. Blount could have crouched as he attacked. Perhaps they’d been underground, Edith tying to climb to the surface, prevented by a cord lassoing her neck. I’d been hasty to assume height differential was the sole explanation.

Irrationally, I slowed on Sample Road. Scanned the woods that ran up to each shoulder. As if I’d spy Blount in the shadows, loping like Bigfoot. I saw not so much as a squirrel. Too many raptors, I guessed.

At the center, I parked by an eagle totem and entered the building. A blonde in her teens was manning the counter.

There are two types of gum-chewers in this world. Those who snap, crackle, and pop with openmouthed abandon. Those who hate the sound of loud, spitty bubbles. Blondie and I fell into opposite camps.

“I’m looking for Doris Kramer.” I cut to the chase.

“Gone today.” Snap. “Weird. She, like, lives here.”

“Do you know Herman Blount?”

“I’ve seen him.” She grinned, jaw working like a radial saw. “Me likey.”

“When?”

“With Doris. Twice last week. He seemed, like, intense.”

“Any idea where I can find him?”

“Naw. I never talked to the dude.” Pop. “Doris might be able to tell you.”

“Do you know where she lives?”

“Up Sample Road, ’bout a mile. You can’t miss the mailbox—it looks like an eagle.”

Blount was last seen on Sample Road. Doris was uncharacteristically AWOL.

I thanked the girl and hurried out. If Doris had stumbled onto something tying Blount to Edith’s murder, she could be in danger. If not, she might lead me to him.

I did another crawl along Sample, this time scanning for the postal eagle. Spotting it, I hung a right.

Half a mile down, the rutted, weed-choked drive ended at a seedy frame box that hadn’t seen paint since Hoover took office. I parked next to a Corolla with a
HAWKS LOVE ME
bumper sticker and got out.

Three bowed steps led to a porch hosting a plastic table and a saggy armchair bursting its innards. I crossed to the door, instincts all prickly. Given Doris’s carefully constructed appearance, the squalor felt wrong. A private shame, unintended for guests.

A note taped to the doorbell read “Broken. Please knock.” I did. No response. I waited a moment and knocked again, louder. Nothing. I recalled the Corolla, the bumper sticker. Was pretty sure the car belonged to Doris. My concern mounted.

I took a moment and a breath to consider. Heard what sounded like muffled barking.

Doris won’t like that. Odd, but that’s what my mind sent up.

Circling the house, I spotted a structure about a hundred yards down an expanse of very dead grass. I set off.

Drawing close, I could see that the shed was leaning badly, barely maintaining contact with its cracked foundation. The boards were weathered, the hardware corroded and orange with rust.

To the shed’s right, a dozen indentations rippled the earth. Something cold traveled my spine. I dismissed the sensation as paranoia. Every depression isn’t a burial. And the hollows were too small to represent graves.

Still, I stepped gingerly, avoiding branches that might snap underfoot. Stilling keys that might jingle in my pocket.

Reaching the derelict building’s nearest door, I didn’t knock or call out. I tried the knob. It turned. I shoved. The door creaked back on its hinges.

I squinted into the dim interior.

My hands flew to my mouth. I tasted bile and felt tremors beneath my tongue.

T
HE STENCH HIT FIRST.
An overpowering reek of urine and feces, like a wet blanket slapping my face and molding itself to my skin.

A few deep breaths, then I stepped through the door. The building erupted in sound. A cacophony of yipping, whining, howling, and barking.

My brain moved slowly, reluctant to process the horror my senses were taking in.

Rows of cages ran the length of the shed. Double-decker. Thirty, forty, maybe a hundred.

Jammed in each cage were anywhere from three to eight dogs, eyes crusty, snouts raw from contact with the rusty chicken wire. Many had obscene tumorous nipples hanging like stretched and distorted fruit from their bellies.

My heart splintered.

I’d read of them, opposed them on principle. But I’d never actually seen a puppy mill. Dogs living their entire lives in tiny prisons. No toys. No comfort. No love. No hope.

I looked down the row. Saw cockers, Yorkies, Rottweilers, Labs. The larger breeds were in pens just three feet high, barely tall enough to allow them to stand or turn.

Doris Kramer wasn’t a victim. She was a monster.

Sweat began trickling down my back. The interior temperature had to be ninety-five. How could any creature endure these conditions?

Knowing the barking would soon blow my cover, I reached for my iPhone. It wasn’t in my pocket.

Panic threatened to overwhelm me. I’d left my mobile in the car. Who expected this?

I steeled myself not to bolt. Not to wrench open the cages and let the dogs run free.

If they could run. I suspected many could not.

Slidell is coming, I told myself. He’ll get your message. He’ll follow the trail. But when?

I inched toward the closest row of cages, murmuring soft, comforting sounds in my throat. Maybe words. Maybe not.

The dogs watched my every move, flies buzzing their ears and crawling through their matted fur. Wary. As I drew close they shrank back as far as their cramped quarters would allow.

The cages held no food or water. Feces smeared every surface and lay mounded where the walls met the floor.

Fury exploded white-hot in my brain.

Breathing through my mouth, I picked my way across excrement-coated concrete. Eyes followed me, sad, frightened, hopeful, lost.

The odor was so strong it burned my eyes and the lining of my nose. As I crept deeper into the hellish gloom, another scent joined that of shit and pee and filthy fur. A scent I knew well.

At the end of the first row of cages, a mound of dead puppies lay tossed on the ground. Sensing threat, a zillion flies lifted from the grisly heap in a buzzing black cloud.

Appalled and dismayed, I took a step sideways. And nearly tripped.

I looked down. A large, hairy arm obstructed my path. Connected to it was a large, hairy man. Below his head was an ominous dark pool.

Herman Blount’s eyes were closed and his mouth was open. Blood ran from a gash in his forehead, across his temple, and into his hairline.

I crouched and pressed two fingers to his throat. Felt a pulse, faint but steady.

Had Blount made the same grisly discovery I had? Or was he involved, the animal-lover persona a ruse?

Above the baying, I heard a muffled scrape. Dog? Something else?

My eyes darted wildly. Took in a wheelbarrow, a shovel, a shelf filled with clippers, metal bowls, a tranquilizer gun, a box of orange darts.

Beside the shelf, a pair of wall pegs held leashes. A slash of color peeked from the middle of the tangle.

More stealthy scraping. A footstep?

I held my breath. Thirty seconds. An eon.

The barking had grown more furious, obliterating any possibility of separating sounds.

I scooted closer to the pegs. Saw a bright red leash hanging among the others.

Synapses fired.

Doris Kramer ran a puppy mill. Edith Blankenship wandered the woods around it. Doris stood no more than five foot two.

I had to reach Slidell. But how? Bolt and leave Blount?

The canine frenzy was compromising my ability to think.

Blount was bleeding. How bad was the wound? How long would he last?

Drag two hundred pounds of Herman to my car? Definitely not a goer.

In the corner of one eye I registered movement. A sudden shift of shadow and dimness.

My head whipped around. I caught a glimpse of ratty cardigan. Something snakelike winging past my eyes.

My hands flew to my neck. The snake settled over them.

Cells in my brainstem fired orders to shield my windpipe. Neurons in my cortex overrode them. My hands slid sideways to protect my carotids.

I heard raspy panting close at my ear. Smelled a mix of salty sweat and drugstore cologne.

A stocky torso slammed against my spine, tensed. The deadly cord cut deeper into the backs of my hands. Dug viciously into the flesh of my throat.

Black spots began to gather and cloud my vision. My lungs heaved, desperate for oxygen.

The neurons shouted another demand.

Do the unexpected!

Moving like lightning, I dropped to a squat. The sudden change of angle threw my attacker off balance. As she pitched forward, I expanded the lasso outward, rolled to my back, and kicked out with both legs. One boot connected with bone.

A feral cry.

Doris hit the concrete.

The dogs went wild.

I scrambled to my feet and clawed the leash from my shoulders. Tossed it sideways.

Outrage and loathing overruled any instinct to flee. I wanted payback for the helpless creatures watching with terrified eyes.

I swallowed to calm my heartbeat. To quell the fire in my throat.

“Just toss them out like last week’s trash?” Gulping air. “How many puppies have you killed, you freak show?”

“You hurt my leg.” Rubbing a shin.

“The cops are on the way.” Please. “You’re going down for a very long time.”

She snorted.

“You’re a cold-blooded killer.”

“A couple of dead dogs? You know the penalties in this state for animal cruelty? A slap on the wrist and a warning.”

Balancing with both palms on the concrete, Doris slowly rose to her feet.

I stood my ground, fingers gripping my sides to stop the shaking in my hands. She was right. Lax laws made North Carolina puppy mill central.

“How about murder?” Rage hardened my voice. “You know the penalties for that?”

“What are you talking about?” A little less confident.

“Edith Blankenship.” Over the clamor, my voice was eerily calm.

With amazing speed, Doris pivoted and snatched up the tranq gun. I saw a flash of orange. Knew the weapon was loaded.

“That’s a discussion you can have with Edith,” Doris snarled.

I backpedaled as fast as I could. My shoulders slammed a cage. The occupants went wild.

I threw up my hands, images skittering in my brain. The ballistic syringe piercing my flesh. The immobilizing drug coursing through my veins. Doris approaching my unconscious body with the deadly leash.

As I stared down the gun barrel, a denser denseness formed up in the gloom behind my assailant. My face must have changed.

Doris turned. Gasped.

Blount arced the shovel in a roundhouse swing at her head. The blade connected with a sickening crack. Doris flew back and lay still.

Blount straightened. I caught a flash of blue stare below the mutilated brow.

Our eyes locked.

Blood pounded in my ears. Dogs bellowed around me. Would I now suffer the same fate?

“Let’s find someone to care for these animals.”

I needed no second invitation.