Sick Puppy (28 page)

The tranquillity that had once merely annoyed Krimmler now turned him into a paranoid basket case. At night he slept with the .357 under his pillow, half-certain he accidentally would shoot off his own ear while groping for the gun in a moment of dire need. By day he tucked it in the front of his pants, half-certain he accidentally would shoot off his genitals if danger surfaced.

Krimmler did not, as it turned out, shoot off any of his own body parts. He went for the .357 exactly once, dislodging it from his waistband and knocking it all the way down his baggy right pants leg. It landed with a clunk on the flimsy floor of the construction trailer, where it was retrieved by the smiling bald-headed bum with the racing flag around his waist.

“You rascal,” the bum said to Krimmler.

“Gimme that!” Krimmler exclaimed.

The bum tapped the bullets out of the cylinder, then handed the empty gun to the engineer.

“Good way to shoot off your pecker,” the bum remarked.

“What do you want!”

“I’m looking for a young man, a woman and a dog. A black Labrador retriever.”

Krimmler said, “What is this! Don’t tell me you work for Mr. Clapley, too?”

The bald bum began twirling the long, grungy-looking braids of his beard. Some sort of shrunken-looking artifact was attached to each end.

He said, “The Lab might be missing an ear. Other parts, too.”

“I’ll you tell you the same thing I told that other guy,” Krimmler said. This bounty hunter was even bigger and worse-dressed than Mr. Gash. He also had a bad eye, which made him appear even more unstable.

“I don’t know where your boy is,” Krimmler said, “or his goddamned dog, either. If he’s not camping at the beach, he’s probably at the b-and-b. Or maybe he left the island. Tourists sometimes do, you know.”

The bum said, “I don’t work for Clapley.”

“I knew it, you asshole!”

“I work for Governor Richard Artemus.”

“Right,” said Krimmler, “and I’m Tipper Gore.”

“One question, sir.”

“Go fuck yourself,” Krimmler said, “but first go take a bath.”

That’s when the bum slapped Krimmler. He slapped him with an open hand—Krimmler saw it coming. Slapped him with an open hand so hard it knocked Krimmler unconscious for forty-five minutes. When he awoke, he was naked and halfway up a tall pine tree, wedged loosely in the crotch of three branches. The scratchy bark was murder on his armpits and balls. His jaw throbbed from the blow.

The sky had clouded and the wind had kicked up cold from the west. Krimmler felt himself swaying with the tree. On a nearby limb sat the bum in the racing-flag skirt. He was sipping a cream soda and reading (with his normal eye) a paperback book.

He glanced up at Krimmler and said: “One question, sir.”

“Anything,” Krimmler said weakly. He had never been more terrified. The treetops undoubtedly were full of goddamned squirrels, mean as timber wolves!

The bum said, “What ‘other guy’?”

“The one with the snuff tape.”

“Tell me more.” The bum closed his book and put it in the pocket of his rain jacket, along with his empty cream-soda can.

“He had a tape of some poor slob dying. Getting stabbed to death by his girlfriend. Live, as it happened.” Krimmler was scared to look down, as he was afraid of heights. He was also scared to look up, for fear of seeing one of those squirrels or possibly even a band of mutant chipmunks. So he squeezed his eyes shut.

The bum said: “What’d this other guy look like?”

“Short. Muscle-bound. Bad suit, and hair to match.”

“Blondish?” the bum inquired. “Spiked out like a hedgehog?”

“That’s him!” Krimmler felt relieved. Now the bum knew he was being truthful, and therefore had no compelling reason (other than Krimmler’s general obnoxiousness) to push him out of the tree. The bum rose to stretch his arms, the pine bough creaking under his considerable weight. At the sound, Krimmler opened his eyes.

The bum asked, “What’s the guy’s name?”

“Gash,” Krimmler replied. A chilly raindrop landed on his bare thigh, causing him to shiver. Another drop fell on his back.

“Last name or first?”

“Mr. Gash is what he called himself.”

“What did he want with the young man and the dog?”

“He said Mr. Clapley had sent him. He said the kid was a troublemaker. I didn’t ask him what he meant.” The rising wind made the pine needles thrum. Krimmler clawed his fingernails into the bark. “Can you please get me down from here?”

“I can,” said the bum, hopping to a lower branch, “but I don’t believe I will.”

“Why the hell not! What’re you doing!”

“Gotta go,” the bum informed the quaking Krimmler. “Bath time.”

22

The man in the zippered shoes said, “I’ve killed my share of dogs.”

“I don’t doubt it,” said Twilly.

“Kitty cats, too.”

“Oh, I believe you.”

“And one time, some jerkwad’s pet monkey. Bernardo was his name. Bernardo the baboon. Came right out of his halter and went for my scalp,” the man said. “They say monkeys are so smart? Bullshit. Dogs’re smarter.”

“Yeah,” said Twilly.

“But I’ll shoot this one, you try and get cute.”

“Well, he’s not mine.”

“What’re you saying?” The rain was flattening the spikes in the man’s hair. He held his right arm straight, the gun trained on the Labrador’s brow. “You don’t care if I pop this mutt?”

Twilly said, “I didn’t say that. I said he doesn’t belong to me. He belongs to the guy who sent you here.”

“Wrong!” The man made a noise like the buzzer on a TV game show. “He belongs to a major asshole named Palmer Stoat.”

“Didn’t he hire you?”

The man cackled and made the sarcastic buzzer noise again. “Would I work for a fuckhead like that? Ha!”

“What was I thinking,” Twilly said.

“Mr. Clapley’s the one that hired me.”

“Ah.”

“To clean out the troublemakers. Now, how about you get a move on. Call the damn dog and let’s go,” the man said, “before we get soaked. Where’s your car?”

“That way.” Twilly nodded down the beach.

“Your lady friend?”

“Gone.” Twilly thinking: God, I hope so. “We had a fight. She split.”

“Too bad. I had some plans.”

Twilly changed the subject. “Can I ask you something?”

“My name is Mr. Gash.”

That’s when Twilly became aware that the man in the brown zippered shoes intended to kill him. The man would not have offered his name unless he knew Twilly wouldn’t be alive to repeat it.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Long as your feet keep moving,” said the man.

They were walking along the windswept shoreline, Twilly with McGuinn at his heels. Mr. Gash followed a few feet behind. He was taking care not to get his shoes wet in the surf.

“Why are you pointing the gun at the dog,” Twilly said, “and not at me?”

“Because I saw how you hauled ass up here when you thought Fido was in trouble. You care more about that dumb hound than you do about yourself,” Mr. Gash said. “So I figure you won’t try any crazy shit long as I keep the piece aimed at Fido’s brain, which I’m sure is no bigger than a stick of Dentyne.”

Twilly reached down and scratched the crown of McGuinn’s head. The Lab wagged his tail appreciatively. He seemed to have lost interest in the strange-smelling human with the gun.

“Also,” said Mr. Gash, “it’ll be cool to watch you watch the dog die. Because that’s what has to happen. I gotta do Fido first.”

“How come?”

“Think about it, man. I shoot you first, the dog goes batshit. I shoot the dog first, what the hell’re
you
going to do—bite me in the balls? I seriously doubt it.”

Twilly said, “Good point.”

His legs felt leaden and his arms were cold; the temperature was dropping rapidly ahead of the weather front. The salt spray stung, so Twilly kept his eyes lowered as he walked. He could see Desie’s footprints in the sand, pointing in the same direction.

Mr. Gash was saying: “I got tape of a hellacious dog attack. Chow named Brutus. The owner’s on the phone yelling for help and Brutus gets him by the nuts and will not let go. The 911 operator tells the guy to, quick, try and distract the dog. So the poor fucker, he dumps a pot of Folger’s decaf on Brutus and the last thing on the tape is this scream that goes on forever. Damn dog took everything! I mean the whole package.”

“Ouch,” said Twilly.

“You should hear it.”

“How’d you get a tape of something like that?” Twilly thinking: The more pertinent question is: Why?

Mr. Gash said, “I got my sources. Where’s your goddamned car, anyway? I’m getting drenched.”

“Not far.”

Twilly was crestfallen to spy the Roadmaster behind a scrub-covered sand dune, where he had parked it. He had hoped Desie would see the keys in the ignition and drive back to the bed-and-breakfast, to sulk or pack her bag or whatever.

Maybe she decided to walk, thought Twilly. The important thing was that she was somewhere else, somewhere safe. . . .

But she wasn’t. She was lying down in the backseat. Mr. Gash tapped the gun barrel against the rain-streaked window. Desie sat up quizzically and put her face near the glass. Mr. Gash showed her the semiautomatic and told her to unlock the door. When she hesitated, he grabbed McGuinn’s collar, jerked the dog off the ground and jammed the gun to its neck.

The door flew open.

Mr. Gash beamed. “Lookie there, Fido. She loves you, too.”

The trooper got to the old bridge before he changed his mind. He whipped the cruiser around and drove back to look for his friend. Thirty minutes later he found him, naked on a dune. The governor stood with his face upturned, his arms outstretched—letting the rain and wind beat him clean.

Jim Tile honked and flashed his headlights. The man who called himself Skink peered indignantly through the slashing downpour. When he saw the Highway Patrol car, he stalked across the sand and heaved himself, dripping luxuriantly, into the front seat.

“I thought we said our good-byes,” he growled, wringing out his beard.

“I forgot to give you something.”

The man nodded absently. “FYI: Governor Dickhead was right. They sent someone after this boy. The boy with the dog.”

Jim Tile said, “He’s twenty-six years old.”

“Still a boy,” Skink said. “And he’s here on the island, like we figured. I believe I met the man they sent to kill him.”

“Then I’m glad I came back.”

“You can’t stay.”

“I know,” said the trooper.

“You’ve got Brenda to consider. Pensions and medical benefits and such. You can’t be mixed up in shit like this.”

“Nothing says I can’t take off the uniform, Governor, at least for a few minutes.”

“Nothing except for common sense.”

“Where’s your damn clothes?”

“Hung in a tree,” said Skink. “What’d you bring me, Jim?”

The trooper jerked a thumb toward the trunk of the cruiser.

“Pop it open for me, would you?” Skink got out in the rain and went to the rear of the car. He returned with the package, which Jim Tile had wrapped in butcher’s paper.

Skink smiled, hefting the item up and down in one hand. “You old rascal! I’m guessing Smith & Wesson.”

The trooper told him the gun was clean; no serial numbers. “One of my men took it off a coke mule in Okaloosa County. Very slick operation, too—eighteen-year-old Cuban kid driving a yellow Land Rover thirty-seven miles per hour at three in the morning on Interstate 10. It’s a wonder we noticed him.”

Skink borrowed a handkerchief to swipe the condensation off his glass eye. “I don’t get it. You’re the one told me not to bring the AK-47.”

“Guess I’m getting nervous in my old age,” the trooper said. “There’s something else in the glove compartment. You go ahead and take it.”

Skink opened the latch and scowled. “No, Jim, I hate these damn things.” It was a cellular phone.

“Please. As a favor,” the trooper said. “It will significantly improve my response time.”

Skink closed his palm around the phone. “You better hit the road,” he said grumpily. “This damn car stands out like the proverbial turd in the punch bowl.”

“And you don’t?”

“I’ll be getting dressed momentarily.”

“Oh, then you’ll
really
blend in,” Jim Tile said.

Skink got out of the police cruiser and tucked the heavy brown package under one arm. Before closing the door, he leaned in and said, “My love to your bride.”

“Governor, I don’t hear from you in twenty-four hours,” the trooper said, “I’m coming back to this damn island.”

“You don’t hear from me in eight, don’t even bother.”

Skink gave a thumbs-up. Then he turned and began to run across the windblown dunes. It was a meandering, waggle-stepped, butt-wiggling run, and Jim Tile couldn’t help but laugh.

He watched his friend disappear into the hazy yellow-gray of the storm. Then he wheeled the car around and headed for the mainland.

CALLER:
Help me! Help me, God, please, oh God, help. . . .

DISPATCHER:
What’s the problem, sir?

CALLER:
She set fire to my hair! I’m burning up, oh God, please!

DISPATCHER:
Hang on, sir, we’ve got a truck on the way. We’ve got help coming. Can you make it to the bathroom? Try to get to the bathroom and turn on the shower.

CALLER:
I can’t, I can’t move. . . . She tied me to the damn bed. She . . . I’m tied to the bed with, like—oh Jesus, my hair!—clothesline. Aaaggggghhhooooohhhh. . . .

DISPATCHER:
Can you roll over? Sir, can you turn over?

CALLER:
Cindy, no! Cindy, don’t! CINDY!

DISPATCHER:
Sir, if you’re tied to the bed, then how—

CALLER:
She held the phone to my ear, the sick bitch. She dialed 911 and put the phone to my ear and now . . . ooohhhhhhh. . . . Stop! . . . Now she’s doing marshmallows. My hair’s on fire and she’s cooking. . . . Stop, God, stop, I’m burning up, Cindy! . . . Marsh—oh Jesus!—mallows. . . . Cindy, you crazy psycho bitch. . . .

Mr. Gash turned down the volume and said, “See? That’s what love gets you. Man’s wife ties him to the bedposts, pretending like she’s gonna screw his brains out. Instead she puts a lighter to his hair and roasts marshmallows in the flames.”

Desie said, “That was real?”

“Oh yes, Virginia.” Mr. Gash popped the tape out of the console, and read from the stick-on label. “Tacoma, Washington. March tenth, 1994. Victim’s name was Appleman. Junior Appleman.”

“Did he die?”

“Eventually,” Mr. Gash reported. “Took about six weeks. According to the newspaper, the Applemans had been having serious domestic problems. The best part: He lied to the dispatcher. It wasn’t clothesline she tied him up with, it was panty hose. He was too embarrassed to say so. Even on fire! But my point is, romance is fucking deadly. Look at you two!”

Twilly and Desie traded glances.

“You wouldn’t be here right now, about to die,” Mr. Gash added, “if you guys hadn’t gotten romantically involved. I’d bet the farm on it.”

They were all in the station wagon, parked among the bulldozers in the woods. Desie recognized the place from Dr. Brinkman’s tour of the island. Night had fallen, and the rain had ebbed to a drizzle. The only light inside the car came from the dome lamp, which Mr. Gash had illuminated while playing the 911 cassette for his captives. He was next to Twilly Spree in the front seat. Desie sat behind them with McGuinn, who noisily had buried his snout in a sack of dry dog food and was therefore heedless of the semiautomatic pointed at his head.

Mr. Gash said to Desie, “What’s your name, babe?”

“Never mind.”

Mr. Gash held the gun in his right hand, propped against the headrest. With his other hand he pawed through Desie’s purse until he found her driver’s license. When he saw the name on it, he said, “Shit.”

Desie shrunk in her seat.

“Nobody told me. I wonder why,” Mr. Gash mused. “They told me about the dog but not the wife!”

Twilly said, “Her husband didn’t know.”

“Didn’t care is more like it.”

“You’re making a mistake,” said Twilly. Of course the man in the brown zippered shoes ignored him.

“Well, ‘Mrs. Stoat,’ I had big plans for tonight. I was going to drive you back to the mainland and hook up with a couple party girls. Introduce you to the wonderful world of multiple sex partners.” Mr. Gash was studying Desie’s photograph on the license. “I like the highlighting job on these bangs. It’s a good look for you.”

Desie resisted the impulse to comment upon the killer’s platinum-tinted eyebrows.

“How exactly do you pronounce your name?” Mr. Gash asked. “Dez-eye-rotta? Is that close?”

“ ‘Desie’ is fine.”

“Like the Cuban guy on the old Lucy show.”

“Close enough.”

“Take off your earrings,” Mr. Gash told her. “I’ve got a friend in Miami, an Italian girl, she’ll look wicked hot in those. Almost as hot as you.”

Desie removed the pearl studs and handed them over.

Mr. Gash said, “You’re way too pretty for that crybaby porker of a husband. And since I haven’t been laid in six days, I say what the hell. I say go for it.”

Twilly tensed. “Don’t be an idiot. Clapley isn’t paying you to molest the wives of his friends.”

“Friend? According to Mr. Clapley, Stoat’s nothing—and I quote—but a ‘turd fondler.’ Besides,” said Mr. Gash, “my job is cleaning out the troublemakers. And, Mrs. Stoat, sleeping with a troublemaker makes you a troublemaker, too.”

Desie pretended to stare out the fogged-up windows. A tear crawled down one cheek.

“The way I see it,” Mr. Gash went on, “is a murder-suicide. The young hothead boyfriend. The married woman who refuses to leave her rich husband. The lovers argue. Boyfriend goes postal. Whacks the broad, whacks the puppy dog, and then finally he whacks himself. Of course, they find the weapon”—Mr. Gash, nodding at his own—“at the scene.”

Twilly said, “Not very original.”

“The murdered dog makes it different. That’s what the cops’ll be talking about,” said Mr. Gash. “ ‘What kind of creep would hurt an innocent dog?’ Speaking of which, before I shoot you I’ve gotta ask: Where’d you get that damn ear, the one you sent to Stoat? Jesus, was he freaked!”

Twilly shifted slightly in the driver’s seat. He braced his back against the door and casually took his right arm off the steering wheel.

“You really collect those horrible tapes?” Desie’s voice was like acid.

“By the trunkload.” Mr. Gash flashed a savage smile.

For a few moments, a chorus of ragged breathing was the only sound in the car; all three humans, including Mr. Gash, were on edge. Twilly glanced over the seat to check on McGuinn, who had finished off the dog food and was now mouthing the paper sack. The Lab wore an all-too-familiar expression of postprandial contentment.