Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 135, No. 2. Whole No. 822, February 2010

Skyler Hobbs and the Rabbit Man by Evan Lewis

Evan Lewis was born and raised in the Pacific Northwest; he currently lives in Portland, Oregon, with his wife, three cats, and two dogs, and he’s set this new story in that city. Already well known in our field as a blogger (see page 64 of this issue), he has had both a tall tale and a Western published online. The following is his first paid print publication and also his first mystery. It’s an homage — though a most unusual one — to Sherlock Holmes, whose legacy we celebrate in every February issue.

The ad in the Oregonian sounded like a gag: “Room to let. Rent negotiable. Inquire 221-B Baker St., Portland.”

No phone number. No e-mail address. No reason to pursue it further, except that I was badly in need of a room, and the prospect of a weird landlord had a certain appeal.

The street was only a block long, if you could call it a street. It was an unpaved, rocky track snaking uphill between a fenced-in field and the backside of a three-story apartment building. And there was only one house on the block, if you could call it a block. There was no curb, no sidewalk, and the only difference between yard and street was the preponderance of weeds.

The rickety two-story house looked like it had last been painted around the time of the Lewis and Clark Expedition. A stocky man stood on the porch with his back to the street, apparently talking with someone inside. His windmilling arms and strident tones made it clear he was less than happy.

Parked in front of the house was a cherry-red, three-wheeled car that looked like an escapee from an amusement park ride. I pulled my PT Cruiser in behind and stepped out.

The words echoing off the porch were both colorful and profane. After a moment the stocky man wheeled and stormed down the steps, flinging further invective behind him. He wore a scraggly beard and had wiry black hair tied in a ponytail. His faded orange T-shirt said Free Tibet. He was nearly upon me when he stopped, eyed me owlishly, and waved a folded newspaper in my face. “If you’ve come for the room, you’re wasting your time. That wacko wouldn’t even show it to me. He didn’t like my initials.”

Initials? I could think of nothing to say to that, but wondered what initials could be so objectionable. FBI, IRS, PLO? HIV? The guy glowered at me and stomped on by to the tiny red car. I wrinkled my nose as he passed, wondering what he’d stepped in.

Watching where I put my feet, I approached the house. It looked like no place I’d want to live, but I had to see what sort of specimen would reject a renter because of his initials.

The porch steps creaked nastily. I was halfway up when I noticed the rusty metal numbers and letter tacked above the mailbox. 221-B.

“You have recently dined at Jack in the Box, I perceive,” said a nasal voice. “Two Jumbo Tacos and a large Diet Coke.” The accent was faintly British.

I stopped, noticed the front door was still open, and saw a shadowy figure regarding me through the screen. Was this guy some kind of mind reader? No, it had to be more than that. I glanced down at my white Trail Blazers T-shirt, brushed away shreds of lettuce and broken tortilla shells. The cola stain remained.

“Lucky guess.” I stepped up to the screen. “I’m here about the room. Want to know my initials?”

A tall, lean man with a decidedly pointed nose stared out at me. One eyebrow lifted. “I do indeed.”

“CSI,” I said.

“A lie,” he said. “Intriguing.” His eyes were not directed at me, but toward the street. I glanced over my shoulder. The stocky man still stood beside his little red car, eyeing us with obvious disapproval. He looked wider than the car.

“It was a joke,” I said. “I’m Jason Wilder. You can figure the initials for yourself. The room still available?”

“Perhaps. Do you mind telling me your middle name?”

“Yes,” I said, and meant it. No one likes a Hubert.

“But you do have one. If you will humor me, does it perhaps begin with an H?”

Feeling a little creeped out, I said, “Perhaps.”

He nodded as if confirming a suspicion. His eyes still roved between me and the street, probably curious to see if the stocky guy could really cram his bulk into that tiny three-wheeler. I was, too.

“I don’t suppose,” he said, “that you are in any way connected to the medical profession?”

“Afraid not.” I hauled out my wallet and dug for a business card. Behind me, a car door slammed and an engine buzzed to life. Damn, I’d missed the cramming.

I found my card and held it up to the screen. Jason Wilder, it said, Computer Doctor, followed by my shop address and contact info.

Stones rattled as the car climbed the rough street.

“The room is yours,” he said. “Now quickly, to your automobile!”

I stared at him until the screen door banged the toe of my tennis shoe.

“Hurry man, there is no time to lose.”

The three-wheeled car turned left at the top of the street and disappeared behind the tall apartment house.

I stepped back, and the lean man rushed out, fairly flying down the steps. “Hey!” I said. “What the hell?” But I followed, and by the time I reached the bottom of the steps, he was tugging impatiently at the passenger door of my Cruiser.

“Come, Doctor! Time is short.”

He was so insistent, and his manner so earnest, that I felt compelled to humor him. I clicked the doors open with the remote and slid into the driver’s seat. “Where are we going?”

“Follow that zebra,” he said. “The fate of the city is in our hands.”

I’d started the engine, but kept it in neutral. I turned away from him, examining the windows of the tall apartment building. Seeing nothing, I peered past him at the overgrown fence lining the opposite side of the street. Still nothing.

“Haste is crucial, Doctor! What are you looking for?”

“Cameras,” I said. “This is one of those Candid Camera wannabes, right? You put on this crazy Sherlock Holmes act to see how gullible I am. Now you want me to follow a zebra.”

I got my first clear look at his face. His nose was not just long, but sharp, as were the rest of his features, and his skin appeared tight across his bones. His hair was dark and combed straight back, leaving a widow’s peak. His eyes were green and tightly wound. He really did resemble the old Strand Magazine drawings of Sherlock Holmes. But there was something else. An almost childlike innocence, pleading to be taken seriously.

“Surely you recognized Rabbit Man’s vehicle,” he said testily. “The ZAP Xebra is one of the most efficient all-electric automobiles on the market. Now go! He must not elude us!”

Rabbit Man? This was getting crazier by the second. But I caught another flash of the man behind the mask. Please, his eyes said, you must believe me. If this guy was acting, he was doing a hell of a job.

I pulled into the street, tires spinning, and gunned up the hill. We roared around the corner just in time to see the red car turn right onto SW Kelly.

“If we lose him, Doctor, the results could be catastrophic.”

“Computer Doctor,” I said. “I save hard drives, not lives.”

Kelly is a busy street, and several cars passed before I was able to follow. As it was, I was lucky to see the Xebra make an illegal left turn under an overpass, and head up the entrance to the Ross Island Bridge.

“After him!” The guy now sat on the edge of the car seat, bracing one arm on the dash and the other on the windowsill. A thin sheen of sweat had formed on his forehead. He looked feverish.

I glanced around for cops. Seeing none, I took the chance and roared up the ramp after the electric car.

“Look,” I said, “I’m not above breaking an occasional traffic law, but I have no clue what this is about. I don’t even know your name.”

We swung into the S-turns feeding onto the bridge. Coming out, I saw the three-wheeler halfway across, six or eight cars now between us.

“Hobbs,” my passenger said. “The name is Hobbs.”

The faster I drove, the whiter his face became, and the tighter he gripped the dash.

“You gonna upchuck in my car?”

“Quite possibly,” he said. “But duty demands it.”

“Not mine. Look, Hobbs, if I don’t get some answers, I’m leaving you at the next corner. You can lose your cookies on the sidewalk.”

The bridge rose to a gentle peak at the center of the Willamette River. Rabbit Man went over the hump and was now out of sight. I was half hoping we’d lost him, but when we reached the other side, he was waiting to make a left turn onto the street next to Jack in the Box. Maybe he’d overheard Hobbs talking about tacos.

“First,” I said, “why do you call him Rabbit Man?”

Oncoming traffic was heavy, as always, and a white Chevy truck was between us and the red car.

“You spoke with the man,” Hobbs said. “Didn’t you notice anything peculiar about him?”

“Aside from the fact that he’s wider than his car?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Did you not detect a particular odor about him?”

A break came, and the three-wheeler scooted onto the cross street, passed the drive-in entrance, and proceeded through the next stop sign. The driver of the truck was more timid. We waited.

“Now that you mention it, I did smell something. Dog crap.”

The truck made a leisurely turn, and I had to swing almost parallel to it to avoid being hit by oncoming traffic. Hobbs squalled like a cat with a squashed tail. The truck turned into Jack in the Box and we were free to follow the Xebra. When Hobbs shifted his grip, I saw fingernail marks on the dashboard.

Hobbs said, “You were half right about the odor. It was rabbit feces. And not the feces of a single rabbit, but that of many. What does that suggest to you?”

I wrinkled my nose. “That you are even weirder than I thought.”

I kept the red car in sight as it crossed railroad tracks, turned left on SE 12th, and right on Division. I let another car get between us before following. My tailing experience was limited to TV detective shows, but I’d seen a lot of them.

“So he likes rabbits,” I said. “So what?”

Traffic slowed near the entrance to the New Seasons Market. I watched to see if Rabbit Man would turn in. Maybe he was a dangerous health-food nut. But the three-wheeler zipped through the intersection, still heading east on Division.

“His automobile bears a bumper sticker promoting the Portland Alliance, a publication favored by political activists and malcontents.”

“Big deal,” I said. “I’m not all that content myself.”

This was definitely a health-food neighborhood. We passed a recycled-clothing store. A frumpy coffee shop. A day spa. An indoor-plant nursery. A scooter dealer. A secondhand furniture store.

The ZAP Xebra pulled to the curb in front of Do It Best Hardware. I braked quickly and found a spot half a block back, next to a haircut joint called Star Salon.

“Just as I feared,” Hobbs said.

Rabbit Man’s door opened. A head and shoulder oozed out, then the rest of him popped free like Jell-O from a mold. He darted around the rear of the car and into Do It Best. Before I could ask Hobbs what nefarious purpose the guy might have, he was out of the car. “Wait here, and keep the motor running.” Then he too entered the hardware store.

I sat with my hands on the wheel, weighing my options. I was sorely tempted to cut and run. But odd as Hobbs was, I sort of liked him. He seemed to need me. And if I left him here, how would he get home?

Besides, I still needed a room. I’d been living in the back of my computer repair shop for the past five months, and my landlord had finally caught on. The space didn’t meet the legal definition of a residence, and he could be fined. Unless I made other arrangements pronto, I’d be evicted.

And what if Rabbit Man was really up to no good? It would be interesting to see if crime fighting was as much fun as it looked on TV.

On the other hand, of course, Hobbs could be insane.

I was still arguing with myself when Rabbit Man emerged from Do It Best with a large, odd-shaped paper bag. Heading for his car, he glanced briefly my way, did a double-take, and stopped, staring at my Cruiser. There were many in town of the same Superman-blue color, but mine was the only one I’d seen with a spoiler. I tried to keep my face behind the rearview mirror as Rabbit Man crossed the side street and approached. A moment later he was peering through the passenger’s window, his face turning purple.

Hobbs came out of the hardware-store door, saw what was happening, and slid around the corner of the store, crouching behind a line of wheelbarrows tipped on their noses against the building.

“Are you following me?” Rabbit Man’s bellow was only slightly muted by the closed window. I grinned and held up two fingers in a peace sign. Barking an obscene word, he stalked to his car, squeezed back in, and pulled into traffic. I had to wait while Hobbs sprinted from concealment and jumped into my passenger seat. “After him, Doctor! Quick!”

I bolted from the curb, scooted through a yellow light at 39th, and continued up Division. We were now directly behind the Xebra. “What did he buy?”

“Wire cutters. Long-handled wire cutters. And I’ve no doubt he plans on using them soon.”

“So?”

A Tri-Met bus had stopped ahead to load and unload. The City of Portland had adopted the annoying practice of constructing passenger peninsulas at some bus stops. These jutted several feet out into the street, so instead of buses pulling over to the curb, the curb came out to meet them. This was fine for buses, but a pain in the ass to drivers stuck behind.

As we waited, the wheelchair lift emerged from the side of the bus. I sighed. It was going to be awhile. Rabbit Man obviously knew this too, because he turned in his seat, flashed us a wicked smile, and wheeled his toy car up onto the sidewalk. People waiting to board scurried out of the way as he tooled between a telephone pole and the carbide-saw shop on the corner, turned right onto 41st, and was gone.

We sat at a corner table at Stumptown Coffee Roasters. I sipped my usual Hair Bender, a blend with hints of chocolate, toffee, caramel, and citrus. Advised that they did not serve Earl Grey tea, Hobbs settled for decaf Sumatra coffee. He said the name reminded him of a rat he once knew.

The stop was my idea. I wanted to learn more about this guy before our acquaintance went further.

“You got any name other than Hobbs?”

He pursed his lips. “I do. But I’ll thank you not to address me as such.” He pronounced the name.

“How do you spell that? S-c-h-u-y...?”

“S-k-y,” he said, “l-e-r.”

It didn’t sound like such a bad name to me, but I let it go. I had my laptop open, taking advantage of the free Wi-Fi. As we talked, I Googled “Skyler Hobbs.” I got four hits. One lived in Cameroon, one was three feet tall, one a Florida teenager, and the last a fictional character whose first name was Darren. None seemed connected to the man across the table. “If we’d caught up with Rabbit Man, what would you have done with him?”

“I had no desire to catch him. At least not yet.” Hobbs stirred another packet of sugar into his coffee, took a small sip, and made a face. “Whatever he plans, it will take place this very evening. I wished to be present.”

“What makes you so sure something is happening tonight?”

“His copy of today’s newspaper. He had been doodling in the margins, and had written several times, in bold letters, TONIGHT.”

I shrugged. “Maybe he has a big date.”

I pulled up another Web site. This one had a firewall, but I’d been there before and cracked it.

Hobbs shook his head. “I have made an intense study of criminal and antisocial behavior. Our Rabbit Man possesses all the characteristics of the anarchist. The wide, flaring nostrils, the quivering lips, the twitching jaw. And most telling of all, the half-mad fire of zealotry in his eyes.”

I’d seen the same signs in folks waiting in line for a Star Wars movie, but didn’t say so. I wanted to hear more. “Is that it? Is that all you have on the guy?”

Hobbs shook his head. “Obviously, you failed to notice his fingers. They were peculiarly white, and the skin was puckered, almost like a man who has just emerged from a long swim.”

“So he went swimming.”

“Almost like that. No, Doctor, this particular condition was caused not by water, but perspiration. Our Rabbit Man has been wearing rubber gloves for long periods at a time.”

“So what does that add up to?”

“I can only suspect,” Hobbs said. “But I suspect the worst.”

“Which is?”

“Since he has eluded us, that is now immaterial. What are you doing on that computer?”

“Checking eBay,” I lied. The firewall was being difficult. Since my last time in, someone had plugged the holes. I burrowed deeper, seeking an alternate route. “Why do you care what he does, anyway?”

“It is my profession. I am a consulting detective.”

“Oh. My. God.”

“Pardon?”

“You’re really serious. You actually believe you’re Sherlock Holmes.”

He arched an eyebrow. “An incorrect assumption, Doctor. You really must work on that.”

“And that business with the initials. Yours are S. H. Mine are J. W. That’s why you’re renting out that room. You’re looking for Dr. Watson.”

He shook his head. “I’m renting the room because I am short of funds. And I am not so deluded as to believe I am Sherlock Holmes. I am merely the reincarnation of Sherlock Holmes.”

I stopped typing and stared at him. He was more than nuts. He was certifiable. “I have a similar confession. I’m actually the reincarnation of Philip Marlowe.”

His face brightened. “A happy coincidence, I’m sure. You would be amazed at the number of otherwise intelligent individuals who scoff at the notion of reoccurring souls. I am not familiar with this Philip Marlowe fellow. Was he perhaps related to Christopher Marlowe, the playwright?”

“I doubt it. I think he was second cousin to Sam Spade.”

Hobbs looked blank.

The Web site came alive. Computer Doctor strikes again. I filled in the blanks and punched Enter.

Hobbs’s madness, I decided, appeared to be benign. He was on the side of justice, and had a burning mission in life. Lacking one of my own, I admired that. Maybe I could even borrow it.

The information I wanted filled the screen.

Hobbs slurped the last of his coffee. “Despite the failure of this afternoon’s enterprise,” he said, “the offer of the room remains open. Would you care to see it now?”

“That can wait,” I said. “First, we should pay a visit to Rabbit Man.”

Hobbs looked puzzled. “But how? We don’t know who he is or where he lives.”

“We do now.” I spun the laptop around to face him. “I ran his license number through DMV.”

Rabbit Man’s real name was Daniel J. Parkinson, and he lived on SE 22nd, a couple blocks south of Clinton. Contrary to Portland’s image in the national media, not everyone here munches granola and wears Birkenstocks. But certain neighborhoods do come close to the mark, and this was one of the closest. Knowing this, Hobbs had insisted we run back to his place for suitable attire.

Ninety minutes later, after leaving the car in a shady spot two blocks away, we strolled up 22nd toward the Rabbit Man residence. Hobbs wore a skin-tight suit of black and lime-green spandex, kneepads, ankle pads, fanny pack and a silver helmet shaped like a bicycle seat. My getup consisted of faded blue bib overalls over a green plaid flannel shirt, a wig of dirty blond dreadlocks, and — yes, God help me — Birkenstocks. All I needed to feel more ridiculous was a corncob pipe.

These so-called disguises had come from a musty room in Hobbs’s basement. He had, he said proudly, spent years haunting garage sales and thrift stores, and could now blend seamlessly into any neighborhood in the city.

Rabbit Man’s street was lined with houses of 1930s vintage, most having undergone a hodgepodge of improvements and renovations. The majority had a second story, or at least a dormer, a narrow driveway, and a garage. Each yard had a good-sized birch, beech, or fir tree and an assortment of flowers and shrubs.

The telltale odor of rabbits attacked our nostrils from half a block away, and grew steadily stronger as we neared our destination. Passing Rabbit Man’s house, where I spotted the little ZAP Xebra at the rear of the driveway, I had to hold my breath. It was only on our third turn down the street that Hobbs was able to pinpoint the source of the smell — the backyard of the house next-door. As this house occupied a corner lot, we proceeded around the side. An eight-foot fence prevented our seeing anything, but we did hear telltale scratching and scurrying sounds.

On our next pass down 22nd, I spotted Rabbit Man himself peering from an upstairs window overlooking the yard where the rabbits were apparently kept. Further observation proved this to be a separate apartment with its own entrance off the driveway.

Hobbs still refused to say what crime he believed was being hatched in Rabbit Man’s brain, or what he expected to do about it. I tried another subject. “You make much of a living at this consulting detective business?”

Hobbs was quiet for so long I thought he was ignoring me. When he finally spoke his voice was hushed. “Actually, Doctor, this is my first case.”

I was surprisingly unsurprised. “So you have another job?”

“I did. At Powell’s.”

“Powell’s Books? You quit that for this?”

“To tell the truth, I was terminated. I fear the books proved too great a temptation, and I was caught one too many times.”

My jaw dropped. “You were stealing books?”

“Certainly not! I was reading them, when I should have been pricing or shelving. I understand there were also numerous customer complaints. Apparently some took offense at my small observations regarding their various professions, dispositions, and recent activities.”

“I see,” I said, and did. Telling people truths about themselves was no way to win friends. “Let me guess. This all happened three months ago.”

He gave me a peculiar look. “And how did you reach that conclusion?”

“Your unemployment just ran out. That’s why you need a housemate.”

He smiled, a bit sadly. “Your reasoning is good, Doctor, but you are not in possession of all the facts. I did indeed place the advertisement for the room when my unemployment eligibility expired, but that was nearly a year ago.”

I stared at him. “You’ve been running that ad for a year with no takers?”

He looked at his feet. “I fear I was not altogether honest at the coffee establishment. As you have already observed, I screened the applicants quite carefully. Your assertion that I was seeking Dr. Watson was correct. I could hardly consider beginning my new profession without him.” He looked me full in the face then, and I had another peek behind the mask. His ego was really quite fragile. He needed his Watson, and truly believed he’d found him.

I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. I was my own person, with my own career, my own destiny to pursue. Playing sidekick to a lunatic was not part of the plan.

We walked in silence until the sun dipped behind the trees. Rabbit Man did not come out of his apartment, and I still didn’t know what to do about Hobbs.

Three hours later, we sat in my Cruiser, four doors down and across the street, where Hobbs could keep watch on Rabbit Man’s lighted window. He’d produced a small telescope from his fanny pack, and seemed to find great enjoyment in extending it once every five minutes, announcing that nothing was happening, and snapping it shut.

I was beyond bored. I was hungry. My butt hurt from sitting. “He’s not coming out. I think it’s time we pack it in.”

“We cannot,” Hobbs said. “It is imperative we remain at our station until Mr. Parkinson makes his move.”

“What move? Just what do you expect him to do?”

“Employ his new wire cutters, of course.”

“For what?”

“That,” he said, “is what I intend to learn.”

We had talked. Sort of. Hobbs, I’d learned, knew absolutely nothing about politics, and very little about sports. He had heard, in passing, of the Portland Trail Blazers, but assumed they were a cricket club. He had never heard of Lost, Desperate Housewives, or American Idol. As he had an affinity for things British, I asked what he thought of The Beatles. He launched into a lecture on the use of poisonous insects, beginning with the African leaf beetle, used by African bushmen to manufacture deadly arrowheads, touching on lady beetles and blister beetles, and ending with one called the bombardier, able to squirt hot enzymes from its anus with the skill of an archer.

Following this, I’d tried the radio — a little Trance Formation on KINK, Jukebox Saturday Night on KMHD, The Mark Lindsay Show on K-Hits. Hobbs had dismissed it all as noise. He’d shown momentary interest in a discussion of car-free cities on KBOO, but I switched it off. Even silence was preferable to that.

Shortly after 11:00 p.m. four young men came out of the corner house, piled into a black-and-gold Honda Element, and drove off up the street. Hobbs paid them no particular attention.

I was about to tell him I’d had enough when the lights of a vehicle filled my rearview mirror. The lights went out almost immediately, and a beat-up Ford panel van, running dark, crept slowly past us. The van eased to a stop, engine still idling, before Rabbit Man’s driveway. The second-story window light winked out.

Less than a minute later a thickset figure emerged from the driveway and entered the passenger side of the van. The van rolled slowly past the corner house, turned, and disappeared from view.

I was about to start the ignition when Hobbs whispered, “Wait. They shan’t go far.”

How he knew this I couldn’t guess, but it was his party.

“They’ve stopped just around the block. I need a better vantage point.” He slipped from the car and ran lightly to the corner. I couldn’t help myself. I joined him.

The panel van was parked near the far end of the fence. I saw nothing else, but Hobbs’s concentration was so fierce I felt electricity in the air. After a minute or two I heard intermittent snapping sounds, almost like someone stepping on twigs.

“What’s that?”

“Wire, of course. And wire cutters.” After two or three more minutes of this, Hobbs said, “Here they come.”

The rear of the van was in deep shadow, but I heard the creak of doors and made out two dark figures struggling with a bulky object. They went away, and were soon back to repeat the process. They made a total of six trips, after which the two figures climbed into the van. The engine coughed to life.

Hobbs and I raced back to the Cruiser. Running without lights, we followed them down 21st until they took a right on Division. After so much time sitting in the car, Hobbs had become semi-acclimated. He still sat at an odd angle, bracing himself for imminent impact, but no longer perspired or made mewling noises.

We were now retracing the route Rabbit Man had taken earlier in the day. This time, nearly all the shops were closed. We passed Do It Best Hardware and Stumptown Coffee, continued on past Dairy Queen, and finally took a left at the light on 60th.

I kept well back, watching their taillights until they turned right onto a short residential street I knew ran up against Mt. Tabor Park. The park was one of the largest within the city limits, with three above-ground reservoirs, many wooded patches, roads, trails, playgrounds, and fields, all grouped around the miniature mountain that gave the park its name.

I turned the opposite direction off 60th and parked. Hobbs and I eased from the car, crossed back over 60th, and jogged along the sidewalk, keeping as much as possible to the shadows. The van was now parked at the far end of the street under overhanging trees.

Closing to within several houses, we slowed to a walk and left the sidewalk, crouching low to move from yard to yard. From two houses away I saw two dark figures open the van’s rear doors and manhandle a large rectangular object out of the back. One gripping each end, they lugged it around the side of the van and out of sight toward the park.

Hobbs and I moved closer, taking cover behind a parked SUV. At that moment a slight breeze blew from their direction, and my nose twitched.

“Rabbits,” I hissed. I’d become so accustomed to the smell back in Rabbit Man’s neighborhood that I hadn’t missed it until it was suddenly back. “What does it mean?”

“Let us find out.”

Hobbs leading, we ran at an angle to a low-hanging tree twenty feet to the right of the van. We now had a clear view of the narrow service road between the van and the park. Most of the road was shaded from streetlights, but there were scattered patches of light. Just then the two returning figures crossed such a patch, and I finally saw their faces. It was Rabbit Man Daniel Parkinson and a slim young woman with blondish hair tucked into a stocking cap.

I froze, sure they would glance over and see us. But their attention was focused on the van. Once more they removed a heavy box from the back and started toward the park.

We followed, careful to avoid the lighted areas. I heard Rabbit Man and his companion grunting and puffing as they crossed the service road and reached the park’s edge. Here they dropped the box. One of them bent over, fiddling with it. Then both figures were erect again, staring off into the park.

Hobbs raised his telescope, focusing on a lighted stretch of grass thirty feet beyond them.

“As I feared,” he said after a moment. “They are loosing rabbits into the park.”

He offered the telescope, and I brought the same area into focus. Sure enough, I saw the leaping legs and tufted tails of small furry beasts scampering off into the darkness.

“What’s going on?” I whispered. “What are they up to?”

“They are spreading terror, of course. That is what terrorists do.”

It was well after midnight when we followed the van back down Division toward Rabbit Man’s house. He and his accomplice had continued their labors until six large crates lay empty at the edge of the park.

“All right,” I said to Hobbs. “What was that crack about spreading terror?”

“That was no crack, as you put it. I suspect Mr. Parkinson and his lady friend are terrorists of the worst sort.”

“You mean like Al-Qaeda?”

“That has yet to be determined. You know what rabbits are used for, do you not?”

“Fur coats, of course. And lucky rabbits’ feet. I had one when I was a kid.”

“They are also raised for food,” Hobbs said, “and their fur is woven into wool. But their primary use today is in the laboratory. They are, for example, used to produce polyclonal antibodies, or antigens.”

“Okay. Sure.”

“In other words, they are used to manufacture antibiotics. But they are also employed as test subjects, infected with various diseases in the hunt for possible cures.”

I gripped the wheel tighter. “Infected? Like with viruses?”

“Precisely. I fear that is why Mr. Parkinson has been wearing rubber gloves of late. He has infected these animals with a virus harmful to humans, and has now deliberately released them where they are likely to encounter people. Tomorrow, this park will be alive with hikers, picnickers, dog-walkers, and frolicking children. Any and all of them coming into contact with those rabbits will be vulnerable to infection. If not checked right away, such a virus could spread quickly through the city.”

“How bad could it get?”

“It depends on the strain, of course. But some are so virulent they could wipe out our fair city and the outlying populace within a matter of days.”

“So what do we do? Who do we tell?”

“The Centers for Disease Control, to begin with, and possibly Homeland Security.”

“They’d be as much help as Reno 911!,” I said. “We’d have better luck with the Boy Scouts.”

“We may alert them, too,” Hobbs said, my sarcasm lost on him. “But first, I wish to put the screws to Mr. Parkinson myself. Perhaps he can be persuaded to reveal the exact nature of the threat.”

As the van turned left onto 22nd, I went a block further. I wanted to circle around and come at them from the other direction. I cut my lights as we turned onto 22nd and parked several houses away. The van, now facing us, idled in front of Rabbit Man’s driveway. Through the windshield I saw the two figures lean toward each other, their faces close. Kissing.

Hobbs made a noise resembling a horse toot.

Rabbit Man and his lady finally broke their clinch. The passenger door opened and he slid out. As if on cue, four dark shapes boiled out of the bushes. Two latched onto Rabbit Man, dragging him up the driveway toward the rear of the house. The other two yanked the woman from the driver’s seat and pushed her, struggling, after Rabbit Man.

“What do we do?”

Hobbs chewed his lip. “I don’t know. Perhaps that was Homeland Security.”

“I don’t care who they are. They’re manhandling that woman.” I reached behind my seat and grabbed the Portland Beavers souvenir mini-bat I carry for emergencies. I jumped out and sprinted for Rabbit Man’s driveway.

Holding the bat low in my right hand, I followed the sounds of the scuffle. Rabbit Man lay huddled on the concrete near his Xebra, while two figures in ski masks kicked at him. The blond woman, her stocking cap gone, had been pushed against the side of the house. One Ski Mask held her arms at her back while the other punched her in the stomach.

“Think you can mess with us?” Punch. “Steal our rabbits?” Punch. “That we wouldn’t catch you?”

I slammed the mini-bat across the side of the puncher’s head and aimed a kick at his partner’s knee. The partner twisted. My kick missed and he thrust the woman at me. I stumbled, about to fall.

Strong arms caught me from behind. A nasally British voice said, “Steady, Watson.”

“Wilder,” I said. “But thanks.”

The two Ski Masks by the electric car stopped kicking Rabbit Man and advanced. One said, “Who the hell are you?”

“Hobbs.” My friend’s fist collided with the speaker’s jaw, making a snapping sound. “Skyler Hobbs.” He pivoted and delivered a side kick to the second man’s stomach, producing a hearty whoof.

The Ski Mask I’d clobbered with my bat lay groaning on the ground, but his partner came at me with fists flying. I ducked under and buried the end of the bat in his stomach. As he doubled over, I put him down with a chop to the back of his skull.

I swung to help Hobbs. One of his opponents held a knife and advanced like he knew how to use it. The other was just rising from the ground to take Hobbs from behind.

I was about to charge when Hobbs’s elbow shot back, catching the rear Ski Mask squarely in the throat. Before the man could so much as gurgle, Hobbs’s leg snapped out like a cobra and the other man’s knife went flying. Hobbs advanced, delivering a flurry of straight-armed punches to the center of the knife owner’s chest. The last Ski Mask sat down with a whump.

I said, “You sure you’re not the reincarnation of Bruce Lee?”

“That was baritsu, Doctor. Mr. Holmes was an advanced practitioner.”

A short siren whooped in the street and we were suddenly bathed in light. Only Hobbs and I were standing. The woman slumped against the side of the house, Rabbit Man lay groaning near his car, and the four Ski Masks were sprawled all over the driveway.

By the time the cops got us sorted out, two more squad cars had joined the first. They seated us in three groups, spread out in various degrees of discomfort on the driveway. ID was inspected all around.

Without the masks, I recognized our four opponents as the same we’d seen exit the rabbit house earlier in the evening. They had learned, from an unnamed neighbor, that their beloved pets had been kidnapped by criminals in a dark panel van. In hopes the evildoers would return, they had donned their ski attire and waited in the shadows.

“Why didn’t you call us?” the head cop asked.

The rabbit owner snorted. “How much priority would you give stolen rabbits?”

No one had an answer for that. The cop turned to Rabbit Man and his girlfriend. “And what’s your story, Mr. Parkinson? You really pinch these guys’ pets?”

“They weren’t pets,” the woman said with heat. “They were torture victims. These creeps were selling them to research labs.”

“That’s true,” Rabbit Man put in. “Sheila and I were merely liberating them.”

“Animal rights activists,” I hissed to Hobbs. “And you said—”

“Quiet over there.” The cop shined a flashlight in my face. “We know what these other idiots were up to. Where do you two come in?”

In the process of searching us, the cops had removed my phony dreadlocks. I felt more ridiculous than ever. I’d been hacking for years and didn’t have a sniff of suspicion to my name. Now I was about to be busted for public brawling.

“My friend here,” I cocked my head at Hobbs, “is a consulting detective. And in his infinite wisdom, he had deduced—”

“—that these four miscreants were operating a methamphetamine laboratory,” Hobbs finished. “The raising of rabbits was merely a ruse to mask the telltale odor of their chemicals.” This was met with a stunned silence, followed by everyone talking at once. The loudest voice belonged to the ringleader of the gang. “Bullshit! Complete bullshit! He’s making that up to save his ass.”

I feared that was true.

The cop looked sternly at Hobbs. “What about it. Got any proof?”

“It’s right before your face,” Hobbs replied. “If you will inspect the chemical stains on these gentlemen’s trousers, I’m sure you will find traces of phosphorus, lithium, and ammonia.”

“A meth lab,” Rabbit Man said. “Son of a bitch.”

I couldn’t have said it better myself.

The next evening, Hobbs and I sat in his living room watching ourselves on television. The report by Channel 12, the local Fox station, had been picked up by the cable networks, and we were surfing them all.

For at least the thirteenth time, the pretty reporter said, “You say you are a consulting detective, Mr. Hobbs. Is that something like Sherlock Holmes?”

“Precisely like that,” the television Hobbs replied. “In fact, it may interest your viewers to know I consider myself to be...” dramatic pause, “...a great admirer of Mr. Holmes.”

I lowered the volume. “I’m still surprised you didn’t spill the reincarnation beans on them.”

Hobbs nodded, a bit sadly, I thought. “That, I very much fear, is a notion for which the world is not yet prepared.”

“Listen,” I said, “there’s still one thing I want to know. When you told me Rabbit Man and that Sheila babe were terrorists, did you really believe it?”

Hobbs clasped his hands, made a steeple of his fingers, and peered at me over the peak. “Crime detection is a science, Doctor, but it is also an art. Claude Monet once said, ‘Everyone discusses my art and pretends to understand, as if it were necessary to understand, when it is simply necessary to love.’ Does that answer your question?”

“Yeah,” I said. “You’re not telling. Look, I admit you have what it takes to play detective, but the work you did on this case brought you doodly-squat. How do you expect to make a living?”

Hobbs smiled. “With the publicity this affair has generated, prospective clients will soon be beating a path to my door. And if I am not very much mistaken, I am about to be compensated for my part in this case as well.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Listen, Doctor, and you shall hear the happy sound of feet climbing my front steps.” He paused, allowing me to hear that very thing. “Admit Mr. Parkinson and his Sheila, if you will, and see what they have brought us.”

Shaking my head, I answered the knock. Sure enough, it was Rabbit Man and his accomplice.

“We wanted to thank you both,” Sheila said. “If not for you, Danny and I would have been arrested.”

Danny, as she called him, attempted a small smile, but it came off as more of a sneer. He was employed, we had learned, as a dishwasher at the Reed College cafeteria. This accounted for his sweaty fingers and sour personality. “Yeah,” he said. “We thought you deserved a reward.”

Hobbs glanced at me, raised an eyebrow. You see? “You are too kind,” he said to Sheila.

“Here.” Sheila produced a burlap sack from behind her back. “Something to remember us by.”

While Hobbs simply stared, I took the proffered sack, thanked them both, and closed the door. I laid the sack gently on the carpet and loosened the top. Out hopped a fat brown rabbit.

“Congratulations,” I said to Hobbs. “Your first fee.”

He had now regained his composure. “Laugh all you want, Watson. But it happens I possess an excellent recipe for rabbit stew.”

I opened my mouth to say Wilder and protest the rabbit slaughter. Hobbs stopped me with a wink, picked up the rabbit, and cradled it gently in his arms.

I settled back in my chair. “I’ll take the room,” I said. “But he sleeps in yours.”

Copyright © 2010 Evan Lewis