The Beast of Barcroft (4 page)

Now, with the house back in shape, he moved outside. He was full of energy. He tingled. The more he accomplished, the more energy he had. He raked. He called a lawn service and arranged to have all the brush rimming the fence line cleared from his property over the next weekend. All of the trees would need to be trimmed back too. It looked unkempt. Plus, he wanted a clear line of sight. Standing in sunlight again, looking at the corner of the yard where Bucky had been killed, he realized the feeling scratching at the back of his mind. An old friend who hadn't come around in a while: anger.

T
HURSDAY,
N
OVEMBER 13

Lindsay Clark's thighs burned from the ready stance. The white smock she wore was thick and heavy and perspiration pooled around her mesh helmet, and she felt it begin to slide around her face, like a scuba mask that did not have a proper seal. It made her think of the beach.
No, concentrate,
she thought, as she parried another attack.
Stop wishing this to be over and do what you came here to do
.

She lunged with her foil, but her opponent parried, and just as quickly launched a riposte over the top of her blade. She lifted her elbow and the tip of his blade glanced off the bell guard and past her mask. That was a close one. She retreated to gather herself. They say fencing is the chess of sports. As she shuffled back, she thought perhaps she should have taken a chess class first.

This fencing match had been three minutes, maybe four, but it felt like an hour. Her thighs burned. Her shoulder carrying the foil ached. The opponent she had been paired up with in class, a man probably ten years younger than her thirty, had fifty pounds on her and a swimmer's build. Was he even sweating?, she wondered. It was hard to tell beneath all the gear. All she could see was his lean, muscular torso, draped in a smock like hers and topped with a wire-mesh mask.

He was a very athletic, aggressive fencer. He smacked the tip of her blade over and over, trying to rattle her. Intimidate her. He feinted twice to throw her off her rhythm, but she did not take the bait.

On the first night of class, the instructor addressed the students: “In fencing, you are hardwired to be one of two things: an attacker or a defender. It's natural, it's inevitable, and whichever you are reveals itself quickly. So play to your strengths.” But playing defense was not why she took the class. Every clash, every unmistakable metallic
shing
that split the air, reminded her of the hours and hours spent mesmerized by the black-and-white movies. Flynn and Fairbanks, the swashbucklers. They were beautiful, they were graceful, but most important, they each got their point across.

Something buzzed on her hip, beneath the smock. She had forgotten to remove her cellphone from the pocket of her sweatpants. She hesitated. Even through her inscrutable wire mesh mask, her opponent must have sensed her distraction. He lunged forward. She panicked and thrust her foil forward without thinking. In a last-ditch effort, she turned her wrist outward to try to twirl his blade away in a counter-six motion, but he mirrored her movement, and the tip of his blade went under hers. For a split second, their blade tips twirled around each other in a graceful orbit, then he plowed forward into her.

A touch. The electronic counter buzzed red.

It had all been one motion, his lunge, his avoidance, his strike. No hesitation whatsoever. Yet again, her opponent was the one who got his point across. She offered a sportsmanlike nod to congratulate him on a good match, but he was already walking toward the bleachers with a fist in the air.

“Who says chivalry is dead?” she mumbled into her mask.

She walked off the gym floor and began shedding her gear. She read the text on her phone that caused the buzz. It was from Faith and said, “Call me!!!”

Faith answered on the second ring. “Where are you?”

“I told you. I have fencing tonight.”

“I can't keep track of all your tomboy stuff. I need a favor.”

Lindsay's face got red, but she said nothing.

“Come on, you know I think you're adorable playing Zorro.”

“What do you need?”

“It's for my mother, actually. She needs you.”

“Sissy hates me. What could she possibly need with me?”

“There's a board meeting and she needs you to play zookeeper. Literally. Apparently, there's a neighborhood in Arlington that's overrun with rats or something. It's disgusting. Anyway, I told her you'd be perfect.”

“Perfect for what?”

“To answer questions.”

“Faith, do you even know what I do?”

“I know, I know. But come on, you've forgotten more stuff about animals than most people will ever…give a shit about in the first place. Besides, I thought it might help, like, break the ice or something.” Faith dropped her voice: “I'll make it up to you.”

Lindsay sighed. “Fine, when is it?”

“Seven thirty.”

“Tonight? You've got to be kidding me. I'm still in the District and I'm a sweaty mess.”

“Ditch the musketeers, get cleaned up, and hustle over there.”

“God damn it, Faith. Where?”

“I'll text you the address.”

“She better be nice.”

Within the hour, Lindsay parked the car and pulled the collar of her coat up against the wind as she approached the brightly lit building on South Buchanan Street in Arlington. The white Barcroft Community House on the corner had been designed as a small Methodist chapel in 1908, but was quickly sold to the Barcroft School and Civic League and operated as a one-room schoolhouse for years until larger schools were built. Eventually, the small building was designated as an Arlington Historic District itself. Lindsay read all of this from a plaque outside as angry residents streamed in, alone and in pairs. Next to the plaque was a corkboard plastered with community minutiae—flyers for babysitting and housecleaning services, used cars for sale, advertisements for high school plays, and missing pets. Lots of missing pets, she thought.

Lindsay was dressed in khakis and a sweater, her blond hair still wet from her rushed shower and pulled back in a ponytail. She watched as leaves swirled in a small cyclone on the street. Something about the place tugged at her. Suddenly, stepping inside was the last thing she wanted to do. She told herself it was just apprehension about Faith's mother and not the dozens of sad eyes that stared out at her from the pamphlets tacked to the corkboard.

Last chance,
she thought. She took a deep breath and went inside.

Inside, the space was light and warm. It had been renovated recently. The hardwood floors were light and polished. Arched windows ran along the sides of the room toward a stage in the front. Standing by the stage was Sissy Chapman, chatting with an elderly couple. Lindsay looked closer—the residents were chatting; Sissy had her listening face on. Furrowed brow, nodding along slightly, eyes intently focused on the speakers and limitless in their sincerity. When Sissy interjected, a smile flashed across her face as if the sun had come out after a storm. She had a great smile, Lindsay conceded, just like her daughter. When she discreetly scanned the crowd and noticed Lindsay, she broke off the conversation as quickly as she could, apologizing profusely and pledging to resume their conversation with a light touch on the elderly man's arm. To her credit, Sissy's smile never left as she strode toward Lindsay, high heels clacking across the hardwoods, but her eyes lost their softness. Like her daughter, Sissy was a striking woman, but instead of owning her age, she tried diversionary tactics and feints. Hair piled just a little too high, makeup a little too thick. She sported blouses that plunged to her ample décolletage and power suits so bright they screamed. Clearly, Arlington County did not seem to mind—its residents elected her three times to the County Board.

“That's what you're wearing? Seriously?” asked Sissy. Her smile was wide and never faltered for an instant.

A lunge
.
No time wasted,
thought Lindsay.

“Faith called me in the middle of a workout. I got here as quickly as I could.”
A firm reflection of the blade. A counter six.

Sissy looked around. “This crowd,” she said. She waved to the elderly couple. “Worse than last time.”

“Can you tell me what this is about?”

“Long story short, there's a…rat problem in Barcroft. Some crackhead lives here and keeps feeding the birds or something and it's attracting rats.”

“Can't the county do anything?”

“Residents can file a complaint with the Department of Human Services, who cite her for violations of the county code. She has thirty days to comply, and if she does not comply, the county can levy a fine.” She recited this by rote. “So far, the crackhead has always complied.”

“So what's the problem?”

“She's dead. From what I hear, her family's from out west and the house is all tied up legally speaking, so no one can get inside yet and no one is doing the bare minimum. She was enough of a pain in the ass when she was alive, but if I don't get reelected because of a
dead
crackhead…”

“All this is well and good, but what am I doing here?”

“The Public Health guy is a no-show and I need you to talk about rat control.”

“Mrs. Chapman, I'm the assistant curator of great cats at the Smithsonian Institution's National Zoo.”

“Well, then, a couple of rats should be no problem at all for someone as bright as you.”
Attack and touch. Match: Sissy.

The head of the Barcroft Community Board called the meeting to order and introduced Sissy Chapman, member of the county board. Sissy stepped forward and thanked everyone for coming and acknowledged that there was a serious problem in the neighborhood. “But if we all work together, we can come up with a solution,” she urged. Lindsay scanned the faces of the crowd. She had seen Sissy speak before, and despite their differences, Lindsay had to admit the woman was masterful. Faith learned everything she knew about persuasion at her mother's knee. But this crowd wasn't buying it. Through the eye rolls and the coiled postures ready to strike with questions, Lindsay could tell they had heard it all before. And they still had rats.

“We all know how this started,” continued Sissy. “I learned last time how unconventional this issue is, so I brought in some unconventional assistance to help us solve the matter. I'd like to introduce a representative from the National Zoo, Lindsay…”

She looked toward Lindsay and wrinkled her brow, never losing her bright smile.

“Clark,” said Lindsay.

“Clark!” chirped Sissy. “The floor is yours, Miss Clark.”

Lindsay's cheeks turned crimson.
I thought I was here to answer questions,
she thought,
not be served up as the main course
. She checked her ponytail as she made her way to the front of the room.

“Hello, everyone…as Sissy said, I work for the National Zoo. With lots of different animals and environments and foods…and being surrounded by a wooded area, we too have to worry about
Rattus norvegicus,
or the Norway rat, which is the most common rat in these parts…” Now she did feel stupid for wearing khakis. “Some of the measures we use are bait stations. Have you tried those?”

She reviewed some of the common measures the zoo took to combat rats, and what little she had remembered from her biology classes, but she was losing the already impatient crowd. It reminded her of a scene in a Three Musketeers movie when an army charged the swashbucklers. But there was just one of her, not three, and she was unarmed. Finally, a tall man stood up, and said in a southern accent, “Look, I'm sure everyone appreciates you coming here, but you're not really telling us anything we haven't heard a thousand times already.”

The crowd murmured its assent.

“Once again,” he said, gesturing toward Sissy, “we get a lot of lip service from the county, but what can you do? The house is filthy, the owner is dead, and the family's not from around here. And now it's a safe haven for rats. It's a public health hazard, not a damn embassy. They don't have diplomatic immunity, they're stinking rats!”

Sissy spoke up: “Sir, I understand your frustration, but until the family can resolve the house issue, we're forced to play defense.”

“How do you defend against cougars?” someone asked from the back of the room.

A young man leaned against the wall by the doors she had just entered, eschewing the few empty seats left in the center of the room. Lindsay had not noticed him when she had walked in. She estimated he was her own age, maybe a few years older, but it was hard to tell at this distance. He was nondescript, with brown hair, of average size and build, though maybe an inch or two shorter. More than anything else, what stood out about him was that he looked angry. It was in the eyes, which bore into the officials at the front of the room. Of which she now numbered.

“My dog was killed three days ago, right in my own backyard. It was huge—if it had decided to go after me instead of my dog, I wouldn't have stood a chance. All the flyers outside for the missing pets? I'm pretty sure this is what happened to them.”

Many in the crowd gasped. Side conversations sprang up and new questions were shouted at Sissy and Lindsay.

The man continued above the din. “First, it's the pigeons and the rats. Then it's foxes. Now a cougar. The food chain is in overdrive in our neighborhood because of that house. Does a
kid
have to get taken before you actually do something?”

The room erupted. Sissy raised both hands and waved them up and down, as if the crowd were on fire and she was trying to fan the flames. She looked over and saw the small smile on Lindsay's face. “You wanted cats,” Sissy hissed, “so say something, genius.”

Lindsay cleared her throat and raised her hand. “If there is a cougar in Arlington—”

“Not if. There
is
a cougar in Arlington,” said the man.

“I don't doubt you, sir. I was just going to say, it's an anomaly.”

“Fine, an anomaly killed my dog. But it looked an awful lot like a cougar.”

Lindsay looked at Sissy for a moment. She was trying to keep her smile afloat, but it was capsizing. She jutted her head toward the man with the questions as if to say, “Shut him up already,” but Lindsay pursed her lips and rubbed her forehead.

She thought for a moment, then faced the man again. “But they've been hunted out of this region for a hundred years or more…”