Night Kill (21 page)

I tied Range and Winnie to a rhododendron bush and tested the window. It gave a little. Strongbad reared his forefeet against it and barked his black and tan head off inches from me. I stood back and rethought. I’d met the dog once. He wasn’t a nut case, just young and undisciplined. Hard to predict what he’d do if he got out.

I considered dropping this project and heading home. Not an option. A bite was something I’d have to risk.

It was hard to get any purchase against the double-hung window, but I shoved at it and got a little more movement. With a third leash in my hand, I clawed at the bottom of it and got it up an inch, increasing the Strongbad volume considerably. The plan was that I would calm him down before the window was open enough for him to take a chunk out of me, or he would focus on Range and Winnie, I would clip on the leash, and…Well, the rest would come to me.

I shoved the window up farther and a black muzzle was immediately crammed into the narrow space, the volume dropping to muffled yelps since he couldn’t open his mouth. I pushed gently to open it barely enough to get my hand in, but Strongbad shoved hard with his nose and the window flew up a couple of feet. “Stay!” I said, reaching for his collar, but the big dog launched himself through space and I missed, fingertips clawing at slick hide. He landed chin first in the mud. Staggering to his feet, he lunged for Range. While grateful my face was still intact, I was alarmed for Range, who was twenty pounds smaller, not as aggressive, and tied up.

I could see only dark blurs, moving fast and sounding like six grizzly bears in a bar fight. Another spotlight came on next door, illuminating three dogs in a vociferous whirlpool of brown and black, with broken rhododendron twigs flying at the ends of two leashes. My dogs wouldn’t be tethered victims, but the potential for serious wounds was high for all three.

Strongbad focused on Range and finally got a grip on the skin of his shoulder. He paused to savor the moment and Winnie nailed him on the flank, grabbing skin and muscle and shaking her head ferociously. Range pulled loose and clamped down on Strongbad’s neck. I grabbed leash ends, leaves and all, and started pulling, yelling at my dogs to knock it off.

Range was willing to listen and Strongbad had learned caution, but Winnie was keen for blood. I tied Range to a much sturdier branch, not easy with Winnie roaring and lunging against the leash looped around my elbow. Strongbad growled and snarled, working himself up to another try at Range, when the neighbor walked over, spotlighting us with a huge flashlight. He was middle aged, in need of a haircut, in a black T-shirt and jeans. His tennis shoes were untied and he had one hand held behind his back.

“What’s going on here?”

“A dog fight. Hold this one while I catch the other one.” I thrust Winnie’s leash at him. It took him a minute to decide to take the leash, then he had to bring the pistol from behind his back and shove it in his waistband to free a hand.

That was when I realized Denny had arrived. His white van sat in front of the house, driver’s door ajar. He stood openmouthed, taking in the snarling dogs, neighbor, the pistol, and me.

“Get your dog,” I ordered.

He nodded thoughtfully and started slowly toward Strongbad, who ignored him, full attention on Range.

“Be careful,” I warned. “He’s pretty excited.”

Denny paid no attention and grabbed the big dog’s collar. Strongbad shook his head, but didn’t snap.

With the neighbor holding Winnie, I was free to hand Denny the spare leash. He clipped it on as Strongbad pulled toward Range, barking and growling with fresh enthusiasm, now that he had his own team.

“Thanks for your help,” I told the neighbor, taking Winnie’s leash. “Denny said I could stay here, but I couldn’t find the key. He said his dog wouldn’t be any problem. Boy, was he wrong about that!”

“That dog barks day and night.”

Denny towed Strongbad closer to the house to inspect the open window. He seemed stunned. “You broke in. You came here and broke in.”

So much for covering with the neighbor. “You wouldn’t talk to me. All you do is blame me. You won’t help.”

He looked at the dogs, back at the window, and at me. “Good freakin’ grief,” he muttered to himself. “Unbelievable.”

I didn’t recognize it, but it was the sound of a paradigm shift.

“You want me to call the police?” The neighbor sounded genuinely curious.

Denny noticed him for the first time. “What good would that do?”

“Is everyone all right?” It was Marcie, stepping carefully through the dark and gravel, eyes huge, arms folded protectively across her chest. Her little blue Saturn was tucked in behind Denny’s van.

“What are you doing here?” Denny asked.

“You wouldn’t stay so I followed you,” Marcie said.

Winnie leaned on her leash toward Strongbad and opened up with a volley of frustrated barking, saving Marcie from a real explanation.

The neighbor looked at Marcie and then Denny. “Son, you got a lot of woman trouble, but at least they’re pretty women. Don’t let’s have anymore ruckus tonight.” He clicked off his flashlight and shuffled toward his house, shoelaces flapping. He opened his door and turned to look back at us. A voice from inside said, “Earl, what on earth was that all about?” The second spotlight went out and we heard the door close on his reply.

Marcie, Denny, and I looked at each other in the dim light.

“Iris, of all the impulsive, thoughtless things you’ve done, this has to take the prize,” Marcie said. “I can’t believe this. That man might have shot you. The dogs could all be injured. You could end up in jail.”

No point in arguing with her. She was too rattled to listen and of course she was right. “Let’s go inside where we can see and check the dogs,” I said.

Denny unlocked the front door and turned on the lights. A mounted deer head on an end table gazed toward the ceiling with its antlers pointed threateningly at the couch. The room was a stoned garage sale of odd chairs; stacks of comic books; a TV on the floor connected by a long string to its remote control, also on the floor; a life-size cardboard cutout of Spiderman with a sweatshirt draped over it. Denny swept his battered couch clear of clothes and magazines so Marcie could sit on threadbare maroon fabric.

He towed his dog toward the kitchen, but stopped and stared at bright blood on his hand. I made Marcie hold my dogs while Denny and I checked out Strongbad. The hair on his back was up and he was anxious to resume the fray, but not hysterical. Blood was dripping steadily from a nick on one ear. He kept flipping his head, spraying red droplets everywhere. I felt his neck and flanks and found another cut where Winnie had grabbed him, but it was barely oozing. He didn’t limp, but soreness was likely tomorrow. Denny got a bandage and we put it on the ear to stop the mess. Strongbad hated it and kept trying to scrape it off, still growling steadily at Range and Winnie.

“If you take him to a vet, I’ll pay the bill,” I said. “I’m sorry he got hurt.” My mother’s training reared its head. “And that your rhododendron got busted up,” I added lamely.

“He’s tough,” Denny said.

I gave Range and Winnie a quick inspection. Both still had eyes, legs, a tail. No blood, no obvious limps.

Now what?

“Denny, I never would have done this if you hadn’t…” I started.

“Sit down, both of you,” Marcie said. “You both have some apologizing to do.”

Denny obediently dragged a chair toward her, leaving Strongbad enough slack in his leash to stalk stiff-legged toward Range.

“Denny, hold him. I’ll get my dogs out of here.” I shut them in the truck with the windows rolled down a couple of inches and returned to face the music.

We sat facing each other once again in a living room.

Marcie crossed her arms over her chest again, but not in self-protection. Her soft face went stern. “Iris, apologize for breaking and entering and for risking the dogs. That was outrageous and irresponsible.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Denny said.

He let the silence sit for a moment before going on. “You never would have risked the dogs if you weren’t being straight with me. I got carried away. You wouldn’t maul Rick and he wouldn’t crater himself. I couldn’t think of anything better, and I was still kind of mad at you for dumping me so you could take up with Rick. Marcie’s helping me get centered with it.”

“Iris still has to apologize,” Marcie said.

“Okay. I apologize. Now can you get Denny to talk to me?” I sagged back in my hard wood chair, very tired.

Marcie did not look appeased. She ran both hands through her hair and shook her head. “You two don’t make anything easy.”

Denny retreated to what I assumed was the bathroom. Strongbad got to his feet, already a little stiff, and followed him, shaking his head.

I looked around for Rick’s computer and spotted it parked on a dusty treadle sewing machine in a corner. Marcie joined me. I got her a wooden chair and pulled up a metal stool. On top of a bookcase next to the sewing machine, a box tortoise scrabbled in an old aquarium.

Marcie sat down at the computer and reeled in the mouse dangling by its cord. The computer made a little noise and started to wake up. The dark screen gradually lightened, little icons emerging. “When did you shut Rick’s computer off last?” she called.

“I never touched it. I thought it was off,” Denny called back.

“Nope. Just asleep. Good. The browser’s still open from the last time he used it.” She moused around.

Denny returned with Strongbad still at his heels, but minus the bandage.

Marcie said she needed to get online. Denny disconnected the phone cord from his own computer, surrounded by towers of old comic books on a card table in a corner, and plugged it into Rick’s. She opened a list of recently visited Web sites and clicked on some of them.

“Rick was studying Northwest Native Americans and the laws around ancient remains,” I summarized. “And alcoholism.” At last, promising new information. “That’s why I found CDs of Native American music in his truck. He must have bought them while he was staying with you, Denny. The packages weren’t open yet. When anything caught his interest, he looked for music related to it. Did he mention the CDs?”

Denny shook his head.

“How about Chinook Indians or alcoholism?”

Denny shrugged.

“Nothing at all? Didn’t you guys ever talk?” I pressed.

Denny shrugged again. “We talked some about you.”

Before I could follow up on this unsettling possibility, Marcie said, “Let’s see if he has any email.” She pointed and clicked. He had eleven new messages, aside from solicitations to purchase a counterfeit watch and increase the size of his penis. Denny pulled up a chair and we jammed in together, hunching over to catch the screen at the right angle. Two were postings about reptiles from a list group he subscribed to. Three had to do with animal training. Older emails were personal letters from friends at other zoos, asking or answering questions about animal-related matters.

Marcie took a look at his out mailbox. He’d sent two messages the day before he died. Both were to universities, asking whom he could call for information about prehistoric Native Americans of our area.

“That’s all I can see to check,” she said at last. “Anything else?”

Denny and I shook our heads. Marcie was way ahead of both of us.

We took a break from cybersnooping to search the house for anything Rick left behind. We found a T-shirt from a zookeeper conference and a pair of jeans. I folded them up neatly as dammed-up grief threatened to spill over. I pushed it down—not here, not now.

“Denny, you said he’d hooked up your printer. Where’s that?” I asked.

It was on a card table in the corner, hidden under newspapers. The output tray was empty, but a paper grocery bag serving as a wastebasket was more productive. I found two crooked printouts from the archeology sites. Blurry ink offered details of the Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act. “The paper jammed, and he had to reprint these. When I saw him that last night, he had a manila envelope in the truck, full of papers. I bet it was stuff he’d printed from these sites. He didn’t say anything about Indians when we talked in the truck. Did this have something to do with why he went to the zoo?”

Denny rocked his chair back on its hind legs. He had that intent look again and he started tapping his foot. “Why is he so interested in Native Americans all of a sudden, right before he dies? And why didn’t he talk about it? He never said a word. Here’s a theory.”

“Oh, brother. Here we go,” I muttered.

“You got a theory?” Denny inquired acidly. “Then you go first.”

“Go ahead, please,” said Marcie.

“It’s the construction site. Rick found old artifacts, a village or grave. He read up on the Antiquities Act, like we saw on one of those sites. Everybody knows you can’t mess with something like that, big federal penalties. State, too, maybe. So that would shit-can the new exhibit, right? So he keeps it a secret…no, why would he? Maybe he tells Wallace and Wallace asks him to keep quiet about it.”

“Would he tell the director instead of the foreman?” Marcie asked.

Denny and I shook our heads. Mr. Crandall was either in his office with somebody important or else off to meetings.

Denny focused on the far distance and tapped his left index finger in time with his right foot. Marcie and I waited, energy ebbing out of me.

Denny got up and started to pace. Strongbad sat up, watching the action. “That’s it. He tells Wallace, Wallace figures it will stop the construction. He gets Rick to shut up about it, then offs him when he gets the chance. Then he has to shut up Iris ’cause she’s asking around. That would explain the accident in the aviary.”

Of course he knew about that. Jackie would tell him if no one else did.

Denny nodded, pacing. “I bet,” he mused in my direction, “Rick would have told you about whatever he found if you hadn’t been fighting. All this might not have happened.”

“Thanks for rubbing my face in it. Incidentally, your theory doesn’t hold up. How could it possibly be worth it to Wallace to murder somebody because a zoo project gets delayed?”