Cadaver Dog (10 page)

She parked in front of the 1970s brick-and-mortar at the airfield. It was early evening, and hers was one of the only cars parked in the lot. When she got out, the wind whipped the coils of her black hair around her neck so that she was constantly repositioning herself to face into the wind and wishing she had shorter hair (though she hated short hair because she thought the only women who had short hair were either old or didn’t like their husbands). She was neither old nor had a husband but wanted her hair long anyways. To fix everything, Angie pulled her hair into a bun and impaled it with a glow stick.

She let Murder out and took him to the bathroom. In the distance, heat danced off the airfield tarmac. Angie grabbed her pack and walked over to the helipad, where the Bell 212 was waiting. It was a medium-sized helicopter used by the forestry department to insert hotshots into the mountains during wilderness fires. The door slid open, and a man took Angie’s gear and stowed it.

“He okay to fly?” the man asked, pointing to the dog.

“I’m not sure I’m okay to fly.”

“Guess we’ll find out,” the man said dourly, clearly against his own better judgment.
So I’m not the only one being forced into this predicament
, Angie thought as the Forestry service co-pilot helped her in, then made sure she was buckled. There was no real buckle for Murder, so she grabbed him by his tracking harness and held on tight.

As the world fell below her, Angie closed her eyes. Once they had reached their elevation and were flying steadily, she opened them back up. Murder had crawled into her lap. He was as nervous about flying as she was, perhaps because of her.

“Sorry, pup,” she said. She smoothed his head. The blue and black dog with the chewed-up ear pleaded with his eyes for her to put him back on the ground.

“What’s his name?” the man who helped her in asked her.

“Murder.”

“Oh. That’s a mean dog’s name.”

“He’s a sweetheart.”

“Then why did you name him Murder?”

“I had to kill the owners to get him.” The man chuckled.

“They are really pulling out the stops for this,” the man said. “We usually don’t get called in for something like this. If we weren’t headed out to the fires, we probably wouldn’t have picked you up.”

“It’s a little white girl with blond hair,” Angie said. “Those stories gain traction in the media. Once a story has traction, local government has to react swiftly. That’s just the way it goes.” The man nodded.

On either side below them, the Sangre de Cristo Mountains passed, teasing at their namesake with a slightly red tone. They were named for the blood-like coloration that was most obvious in winter when snow covered the ground. The heat was limiting the snow to only the highest peaks, so instead of blood red the Cristos appeared more like salmon pink.

A few hours later the helicopter stopped and began to hover. Angie looked out the window. Shadows congealed in the mountain passes as night seeped in. For a moment, she feared the crew in the helicopter might make her rappel down, but then she felt a sensation in her stomach as the helicopter started to descend. It landed in an old cemetery, hovering just a few feet off the ground and away from the tombstones.

As soon as the door opened, Murder jumped to the ground and began marking his territory on several gravesites. Angie thanked the US Forestry Service for the ride and hopped out of the helicopter.

“Murder, cut that out. Get over here!” Angie yelled as the Bell ascended back into the gloaming sky.

Two large, white Animal Control vehicles and one of the SWAT vans waited for her. Red Colorado dirt had tanned the lower halves of the vehicles. She did not know any of the men there. She wondered where everyone else was. Usually when a case got this kind of PR, dozens, if not hundreds of volunteers showed up to help in the search. At the very least, Angie expected a trailer and a few extra hands from a search-and-rescue group for Incident Command.

“How was the ride?” a man in a starched shirt asked. She assumed he was the person in charge. “I hope it was accommodating. We paid good money for it.”

Before her brain could stop her mouth, Angie said she thought she could have gotten there faster in her pickup. The man had shrugged nonchalantly. Angie wished she could take it back.

“These are officers Rawls and Ernest,” he said. “They are the tech handlers for the Wolf.” Angie shook their hands. They both looked so young as to make her feel old. She didn’t like that. She wasn’t that old.

“This is Angela Graves.” The supervisor then introduced himself as Dave McAuliffe, the head of Animal Control for Copper City, a small town that had turned its mining traditions into a year-round tourist attraction. McAuliffe had a certain clip when he spoke, a forced clarity that she associated with police, military personnel, and government officials who were often in front of cameras. She guessed police, probably a sergeant before he was moved to Animal Control.

“Actually, it’s Angie,” she corrected him. Without noticing, McAuliffe continued.

“Earlier today two hikers came to this cemetery. They spotted a zombie dressed in a white wedding dress and escorting a young girl, who might be Sarah Erikson, the young girl reported missing this morning. The hikers stated the girl was wearing rainbow-colored shoelaces, which matches Sarah Erikson’s description. This information was not given out. The parents had forgotten to mention it. The reason we believe this is probably
not
Sarah Erikson is one, distance—this is about thirty miles from Sarah’s point last seen and two, we have a family member being brought in for questioning.

“We don’t want this to become another Flight 370 with an ever-expanding search area just because somebody sees something. So rather than split all our resources, we decided to send a hasty team after this zombie. The idea is that between the robot and the dog, we should be able to locate it faster than if we had placed a hundred ground pounders out here.

“Contrary to what I just said about locating the zombie, I want to make one thing clear:  your objective is the missing girl. Taking down the zombie is secondary. Finding its lair comes last. This search will be a little different for most of you, I think. You are used to working in an urban environment with other officers ready to support you. You are all experienced at what you do, so I don’t anticipate this will be a problem. So you are to stay out here as long as it takes or until the search is cancelled. I want you to call in at the first hour, and then at every operational period after that. This is thick wilderness up here. Make sure to stop and check for ticks. If you have any questions, Angie is your expert. Understand?”

Angie nodded. So did the handlers.

“Okay, get to it.”

Chapter Eight

Angie strapped on her pack and scoffed at Ernest’s hiking boots. She knew the brand. They were constructed to “feel” the trail and made him look like he was wearing Bigfoot feet.

“You’re not going to get very far in those,” she said.

“You take care of yours and I’ll take care of mine,” he said. “I don’t plan on being out here very long.”

For Ernest’s sake, Angie hoped it didn’t rain or hail or even get dirty while they were out searching. She thought of how some people just had to learn the hard way as she walked through the graveyard, waving her flashlight on the ground. Murder had been told to wait by the trucks. He watched her hopefully, his chicken in his mouth.

While Ernest and Rawls unloaded the Wolf, Angie stood by the graveside of Esmerelda Worth. Esmerelda was born in 1883 and died in 1910, which made her younger than Angie. The “0” might have been an “8.” Angie couldn’t be too sure; it was so dark and the stone was worn down. If it was an “8,” that would make her older than Angie, but not by much.

Guilt splashed all over her like mud from the tires of a 4x4 after a three-day rain.
I raised you better
, her dad said in her mind. Angie concentrated on the tracks on the ground. There were two sets. From her backpack Angie took out a measuring tape and her pen and notepad. She measured and recorded both tracks, then went back to the truck to wait for the techs.

Rawls at least had a backpack, which looked like a tick ready to burst. Angie assumed it was probably the same pack he used to get around at college, maybe Colorado College or Pikes Peak Community College. He wore brand new hiking shoes, but they were more likely to cause a blister than stop a snakebite.

Angie thought to say something. Now was the time to tell their commanding officer how poorly equipped these boys were. Angie was the expert, McAuliffe had said. With any luck, McAuliffe could get some better gear airlifted to them. But then Ernest pointed to Angie and said, “When is the apocalypse,
mija
?”

“Not soon enough.” She shook hands with Dave McAuliffe, then called Murder to her and started down the mountainside.

“Hey, don’t be mad,” Ernest shouted. “I’m only teasing. It’s just that you have the cowboy hat and the pack and the boots.”

“I’m over it,” she said, still refusing to point out how poorly they were dressed. “Meet you down the trail.”

“But we don’t know where it starts,” Ernest said.

When Ernest turned from yelling after Angie, he nearly ran into McAuliffe, who sneered at him. Ernest shuffled away.

She followed the steps for about ten minutes until she came to a narrow part of the path that dipped in the mountain. There was also a lot of shade. Angie was about ready to set Murder loose when she heard the click-clacking of the Wolf coming upon her. Lights had been added to this Wolf. She smiled, thinking of her last encounter. Even if these handlers did not carry flashlights, they could at least see where the Wolf was walking.

“That thing sure is noisy,” she told Murder.

Rawls was in front, checking for obstacles and low branches. Ernest watched his tablet from the back. He already had a black smudge on his button-up.

“How’d you get here so fast?” Rawls asked.

“I followed the tracks.”

“What tracks?”

“The ones your Wolf is stepping all over.”

Ernest touched the tablet and the Wolf came to a stop.

“Hey, I’m sorry about earlier. What do you mean, tracks? Cause me and Rawls’ve only had the required wilderness-101 courses, and that’s some real Jeremiah Johnson mountain man shit you pulled.”

She kneeled down and showed them the zombie’s print.

“See how the heel is digging in so much into the ground? Normally people don’t do that. They have more kick-off from their toes. But a zombie is just a dead guy being driven by a bug. Think of a marionette on stilts. Fine motor control isn’t the priority.”

“Okay,” Rawls said. “It isn’t that I disbelieve you. I mean, the Wolf is on the trail, right? But how do you know this isn’t just somebody with injured feet?”

She pointed to the second footprint, the left. “See how it is turned in? Going to scenes the past few weeks and not working my dog gave me time to study zombies. They walk either splay-toed or pigeon-toed, but it’s always more exaggerated than it would have been when the person was alive. And the feet don’t step out as far. That’s ‘cause the wasp is trying to maintain balance while it walks. They have a lot of work to do, these wasps. It’s like working a remote control helicopter and navigating with a compass at the same time. Now, over here are the girl’s tracks.”

“Where?” It was Ernest.

“The girl is less than a hundred pounds. Eighty or ninety, I’d guess. She barely leaves a mark, but you can see the indentation in the needles.”

“Bullshit,” Ernest said.

“Okay. Then there is this, too.” She brushed the needles aside. A low print was in the dirt, clear as the mud stain on Ernest’s shirt. A little bubbly heart stood out in the center of the track.

“That’s amazing,” Rawls said. “You’re like one of those survivalists, aren’t you?”

“I’m an observer. There’s a lot to see if you know where to look.”

“Exactly why I like the Wolf. It does the looking for you,” Ernest said. “All I have to do is watch the tablet.”

“Watch the tablet? These are the Rocky fucking Mountains. The most famous people from here got that way by dying here. These mountains are home to bears, wolves, mountain lions, rattlesnakes…  But that’s okay because you’ll be watching your computer screen. Your toys can’t replace knowledge and skill. You’re part of the machine, the lazy machine that would rather monitor outputs than tackle a problem, even when everything you need is right in front of you.”

“That may be true,” Ernest said, “but the lazy machine caught up to you in what, ten minutes? Sticks-and-stones the Wolf all you want, but she is effective.” He pressed the tablet and the Wolf lumbered to life, punching the ground where the tracks had been and destroying any semblance of evidence.

Angie shook her head and called McAuliffe. She told him about the tracks with the bubbly heart and sent him a photo with her measuring tape next to them.

“Looks like we have the right people on the trail, Angie. Happy hunting,” he said before hanging up.

“So, who is gonna start this party?” Rawls asked, increasing the tension between Ernest and Angie. “I mean, someone has to lead.”

“Lady’s first,” Ernest said. “We’ll see if your pooch chooses the right path.”

Angie led Murder ahead of the others and below the trail. She gave him the command and directed him to search upward. Murder dropped his chicken and sniffed around a bit. He first started checking out some of the bushes and trees.

“You know, my lazy machine would already be down the trail by now,” Ernest said.

Angie ignored him and encouraged Murder to keep working. Murder walked over and hiked a leg on the Wolf.

“Hey!” Ernest said. He pressed a few buttons, and the Wolf backed away from Murder’s stream.

“Get to work,” Angie said, her voice stern and cold. Murder shook his body, then started down the trail, his scarred muzzle bobbing up and down along the trail.

“You made him do that on purpose,” Ernest said as they headed down the trail.

“He did that all himself. Guess he wanted to let your Wolf know which dog was in charge.”

Neither Ernest nor Rawls said anything more for the first hour of the search. Murder led them through the mountains and along animal paths and water ruts. Angie thought to herself of how even the dead seemed to follow the path of least resistance. She had to remind herself not to think of zombies as the dead. They were vehicles for very living and very vicious hosts.

She wondered if “host” was a proper word to describe the relationship between a crimson wasp and its zombie. She made a mental note to ask Dr. Saracen about parasitism the next time she was in his lab, which she hoped was never.

After an hour of following the zombie, Angie breaked Murder. He seemed still eager to lead them after the zombie, but Angie knew he needed the rest, even if her furry companion acted otherwise.

The two techs were not doing so well as Murder. Ernest was arching his back and Rawls was pulling off his boots. The little angel on her shoulder was telling her to help Rawls, but she couldn’t hear him well because the devil had gagged him.

The mountains finally let the moon enter the upside-down crown that was the night sky among the mountains. The moon made its trajectory like a mad dancer dousing out the light of the stars around it. It was times like these when the lunar surface blazed so powerfully that Angie could understand why the Greeks bestowed it with such power as to make it a goddess: Hecate.

Angie wished the moonlight could cool her down. They were all sweating in the heat of the night.

Ernest called in their position, but he could not get a response. The frequency crackled and buzzed. Angie shrugged as if to say “that’s mountains for you.” Ernest sent a way point and hoped it got through to Incident Command.

Murder led the search party through thick, winding pine lands. After about twenty minutes, Ernest said to Angie, “Um, Ms. Graves?”

She turned on them abruptly and dug in her heels. She did not like being called a Miss, and she liked their tone even less.

“What?”

“I don’t mean to tell you how to do your job, but your dog is wrong. We’ve left the scent trail.”

She glanced down at Murder, who had stopped to scratch his ear, the good one. Under the moonlight, his blue patches stood out like silvery puddles of water in a dark forest. He had a blue patch on top of his head, and another one on his right shoulder that curled toward his chest.

“I’ve been doing this a long time. I know when my dog is on the trail and when he is not. If there is another direction you want to go, fine, but I’m following Murder.”

Ernest said, “I understand you’re doing your dog whispering thing out here, and that works for you, lady, but we have actual science to back us up. The Wolf says your dog has moved from a one hundred percent signature trail to a thirty percent signature trail. It’s been falling ten percent almost every five yards for the last forty yards or so. That means the trail is back that way.” He thumbed over his shoulder for effect.

“Murder says the trail is this way. That’s where I’m going.”

Ernest raised his hands up in bewilderment. “To keep following your dog, I got to call it in and explain why me and Rawls are not allowing the Wolf to do its job. I’ve got nothing personal with you, lady, but I have to go back to the trail.”

“Fine,” Angie huffed, and turned around.

Rawls seemed uncomfortable to split up, but neither Ernest nor Angie were budging in this battle of new tech vs. old tech. Rawls followed the Wolf back up to the trail.

As the click-clacking of the robot’s feet receded in the trees, Angie said to Murder, “You better be right, dead dog.”

Murder opened his crooked mouth and breathed happily, then returned to the trail. As Murder worked, Angie scrutinized his behaviors. Was he really working or was he taking her down an elk trail? This direction did look like an animal path through the woods. So if she was being honest with herself, he could be looking for fun. But then, his outward demeanor, which was one of the main ways he communicated to her, was all business. His muzzle was moving like his nose, not his brain, was leading him somewhere. His whole body was being pulled along by that nose. Unfortunately, there was no magic device that could make her dog speak, so the best way to communicate was to “read” him. And so far, his body read, he’s working a trail.

Twenty minutes later, Angie breaked Murder and gave him some water and a dog biscuit. It was important not to overwork the dogs. She had found that with many veteran dogs, and particularly with retrievers, they had an innate desire to make their master happy, a desire so strong that she believed the dogs capable of working themselves into injuries. So it was up to her to force him to stop, rest, and refuel before returning to work. She also pulled out some trail mix for herself. She studied their trail on the GPS and was just starting to wonder where the Wolf had taken Rawls and Ernest when she heard the robot coming toward her. A wave of relief rushed over her, though she tried not to show it.

“I wish I had a camera to take a picture of you two,” Angie said. “The looks on your faces.”

Angie had seen fish more shocked to be out of water. Ernest and Rawls looked like football players coming out of the tunnel only to find themselves on a baseball field.

“How did you get here?” Rawls asked.

“Followed my dog,” Angie said with a lot more confidence than she had sixty seconds ago. “Do you know the difference between an AKC trailing dog and a search dog? The AKC-certified trailing dog is taught to follow every corner of the trail and not deviate. A search dog like mine, he’s taught to find a body as soon as possible. If that means cutting corners, then do it. You boys just took a long detour around the mountain, which the zombie probably did, but this guy here smelled the other end of the trail and took me straight to it. It may not be
actual
science
, but in his mind, it was common sense.”