Isle of Dogs

Two

Governor Bedford Crimm IV knew nothing about the Trooper Truth website until his press secretary, Major Trader, came to see him at 1:00 P.M. and set the "Brief Explanation" on the governor's antique burlwood desk.

"Are you aware of this, Governor?" Trader asked.

Governor Crimm picked up the computer printout and squinted at it. "What is it, exactly?"

"Good question," Trader grimly answered. "We've all known it was coming, but there's been no way to check it out or anticipate its spin on things because Trooper Truth is a fake name. And there appears to be no way to trace this renegade trooper through the Internet."

"I see," the governor pondered as he strained blindly to pick out a word or two. "Am I to assume he's one of ours? Oh," he added, pleasantly surprised when Trader served him a chocolate brownie on a small Wedgwood plate. "Why, thank you."

"Made fresh this morning from only the finest Belgian chocolate. I'm afraid I ate far too many of them, myself."

"That wife of yours certainly can cook," the governor said as he ate half the brownie in two bites. "I bet she doesn't use mixes. Or did we already discuss that?" He ate the rest of the brownie, unable to resist anything chocolate.

"Everything from scratch."

"A strange phrase, I've always thought," the governor considered as he wiped his fingers on a handkerchief. "What is from scratch?"

"Ingredients. It has to do with-"

"Tsst, tsst." The governor made his familiar hissing noise, which meant he did not want an answer to the question, but simply was expressing curiosity. "On with things," he impatiently added.

"Yes," Trader said. "Trooper Truth. There's no one on the state police force with the last name of Truth, and no one over there claims to have any idea who Trooper Truth is. But prior to the posting of this first essay"-he indicated the printout-"there have been numerous promotions of the Trooper Truth website and when it was going to be launched. Whoever the person is, he's well versed enough in the Internet to make sure his marketing ploys and ads have shown up everywhere you can imagine."

Governor Crimm picked up his nineteenth-century magnifying glass, which was English and made of ivory. Peering through the lens, he made out enough of the essay's contents to get interested and slightly offended.

"It's been clear for a while that this Trooper Truth individual is based in Virginia or at least wants to point the finger at Virginia," Trader indignantly went on as the governor slowly read. "I've got a file on what he's posted on various bulletin boards and sent out in mass e-mailings. He seems to have access to every governmental e-mail address in the Commonwealth, which is one of the reasons I am sure he's an insider, a turncoat, and a troublemaker."

"Well, I like what he has to say about America starting in Jamestown and not Plymouth," remarked the governor, whose family had been in Virginia since the American Revolution. "I'm mighty tired of other states taking credit for what we've accomplished. But I don't approve of his implication that history is untrustworthy. That's going to step on some toes, now isn't it? And what's this about pirates?" He steadied the magnifying glass over Blackbeard's name.

"Very troublesome. I'm sure you heard the news this morning?"

"Yes, yes," the governor said, distracted. "Do we have any further information on that?"

"The victim, Moses Custer, was beaten severely and doesn't remember much and was babbling a lot about a unique experience with an angel whose car had broken down. But after continued questioning by the state police, he sobered up and seemed to recall a young white male with dreadlocks who shouted obscenities when he flung open the Peterbilt's tailgate and discovered thousands of pumpkins, which he and his gang no doubt had to unload quickly and in secret into the James River. The guy, uh, Custer, had the same weird cuts as some of the other victims."

"I thought we were doing our best to play down this pirate business," the governor seemed to remember. "Didn't I order Superintendent Hammer not to release any statements to the press about anything without our approving it first?"

"You certainly did. And so far, we're managing to keep the sensational details out of the media."

"You don't suppose Trooper Truth intends to keep blabbing about our pirate problem on the Internet, do you?"

"Yes, sir," Trader replied as if he knew this for a fact. "We can rest assured his website is going to open a can of worms, because by all appearances, it's an inside job and I fear your administration could be blamed if things really get ugly."

"You might be right. I get blamed for most things," the governor confessed as his stomach rumbled and his intestines lurched into activity like worms suddenly exposed to daylight. He wished Trader had not mentioned a can of worms.

Crimm's constitution just wasn't what it used to be, and very often he felt like hell. Last night he had endured yet another formal dinner at the executive mansion, and since he was hosting some of his biggest financial supporters, the mansion's director had decided it was important to serve Virginia food and wine. As usual, this had meant ham from Smithfield, baked apples from Winchester, biscuits made from an antebellum recipe, and wines from Virginia vineyards.

Crimm's digestion simply couldn't tolerate any of it, especially the apples, and most of the morning he had been seeking out the most convenient, secure toilet inside the Capitol, until he finally gave up on cabinet-level meetings and retreated to his office, which had thick walls and a private bathroom he could use without

Executive Protection Unit state troopers posted outside the door. As if all of that wasn't bad enough, the wine had given Crimm a sinus headache.

"It doesn't make sense why I have to serve, much less drink, inferior wine," the governor bitterly complained as he slowly moved the magnifying glass over the printout.

"I beg your pardon?" Trader looked confused. "What wine?"

"Oh, you weren't there last night, I guess." Crimm sighed. "We ought to serve French wines. Think about how much Thomas Jefferson loved French wine and all things French. So why would it be such an egregious break from tradition to serve French wines in the mansion?"

"You know how critical people are," Trader reminded him. "But I totally agree with you, Governor. French wines are much better, and you deserve them. However, someone will say something and no doubt it will be widely publicized and costly to your reputation. Which brings me back to Trooper Truth. This article is only the beginning. We have a loose cannon on our hands and somehow must stop whoever it is or at least have some say-so about it."

The governor could have done without the cannon reference, too, as he slowly made out words and scarcely listened to his press secretary, who was a meddler and an irritation. Crimm was not clear on why he had ever hired Major Trader or even if he had. But Trader certainly wasn't Crimm's cup of tea, at least not anymore, assuming he ever was. The press secretary was a fat slob who was far more interested in big meals, big stories, and big talk than he was in being honest about anything. The only good thing about Crimm's failing eyesight was he could scarcely see people like Trader at all anymore, even when he was in the same room with them, and thank God for small favors, because the sight of Trader with his fleshy jowls, ill-fitting suits, and long, greasy strands of hair combed over his bald pate was increasingly repulsive.

"… objects in the mirror are closer than they appear" the governor slowly read out loud as he peered through the magnifying glass. "So The Past rides our bumper along life's highways and may even be inside the car with MS…" He glanced up and gave Trader a huge eye. "Hmmm, now that's an interesting thing to consider."

"I have no idea what it means, if anything." Trader was irritated that the governor would consider anything beyond what he, the press secretary, recommended.

"It's like a riddle," the governor went on, intrigued, moving the magnifying glass over the essay as if he were reading a Ouija board. "You remember the Riddler in Batman? All of these little riddles hinting at where, when, and how the Riddler was going to strike next, but Batman and Robin had to decipher the riddle first, of course. This Trooper Truth fellow is giving us a clue about something, about what he's going to do next or maybe about what / ought to do next. Something about life's highways."

"Speaking of that…" Trader seized the opportunity to move on to a subject that he might be able to control. "Speeding continues to be a serious problem, Governor, and it's occurring to me that if we emphasize speeding to the voting public, we can divert any unwanted attention away from pirates."

"Speeding on life's highways. Maybe that's what he's getting at. Maybe that's the riddle," the governor said, fascinated by his own deductions. "But I wasn't aware that speeding had gotten worse."

It hadn't. But Trader wanted to tug the governor's attention away from riddles. Crimm was known to make inane, inappropriate statements about whatever his latest whim, curiosity, or observation was, and it would not be good at all should he indicate that a riddle or the Riddler was influencing his executive decisions.

"Citizens are complaining that they're forced to exceed the speed limit even in the slow traffic lane because of aggressive motorists riding their bumpers and flashing their headlights," Trader spun his latest fabrication. "And we can't have state troopers every other mile waiting with radar guns. Not to mention, there are escalating incidents of road rage because of these jerks who want to go ninety miles an hour and don't care who they cut in front of."

"People aren't scared enough. That's the problem." The governor was halfway listening as he began to decipher what Trooper Truth had to say about DNA. "You know, he's right about trusting technology instead of human beings. Maybe we can figure out a way to make the public believe we have some new advanced technology that will catch them speeding even if there's not a trooper in sight."

The governor suddenly began to believe with religious conviction that this was the riddle Trooper Truth was hinting at. It was damn time to scare the public into behaving! Detectives and district attorneys did it daily by threatening suspects with DNA even if there was no

DNA recovered or if the analysis of it wasn't helpful. So why shouldn't the governor start scaring people, too? He was weary of being nice. What good did it do?

"We have all these new helicopters," he told his press secretary. "Let's scare the hell out of people with them."

"What? You want helicopters to find speeders and buzz them?" Trader didn't like the idea in the least, especially since he hadn't thought of it first.

"No, no. But I see no reason why we can't use them to check speeding from the air, pretend they've got fancy computers to do that, then the pilots radio troopers on the ground to go after the bastards." The governor's intestines were crawling again, as if they had some place to go in a hurry. "All we've got to do is post warning signs on the roads out there, and people will be scared into believing they'll be arrested, even if there isn't a helicopter or trooper within ten miles."

"I see. A bluff."

"Of course. Now, you go to work on that right away." The governor needed to end the discussion instantly. "Get back with me on the proposal and we'll issue a press release before the day is out."

"Using aviation to catch speeders is not a good idea," Trader warned him. "It's going to hurt your rating in the polls and create an explosive situation…"

Governor Crimm's gut was already creating an explosive situation, and he shot up from his leather chair as he ordered Trader out. Moments later, as Crimm sat behind a closed door with the fan going, he wondered who Trooper Truth really was and if there might be a way to influence what he posted on the Internet. How helpful it would be if the governor could get a thoughtful, philosophical person to disseminate Crimm's ideas and beliefs. Crimm reached for the portable phone on the shelf near the toilet paper.

"Who's this?" Crimm asked when a man answered.

"Trooper Macovich," came the hesitant reply from the Executive Protection Unit's outpost in the basement of the executive mansion.

Thorlo Macovich recognized the governor's voice immediately and hoped the governor didn't recognize his. Or maybe if he was lucky, the governor had already forgotten the incident that had occurred in the mansion's billiards room the other night. It was also possible the governor hadn't seen it, because he couldn't see much of anything these days. But that youngest Crimm daughter would remember Macovich, all right. He had never seen anyone pitch such a fit over losing a game of pool-yelling obscenities and ordering Macovich to stay in the basement and never come upstairs again, which was seriously interfering with his duties.

"Trooper Truth…" Crimm started to say as a cramp doubled him over.

"You all right, sir?" Macovich was surprised and alarmed. "Woo, what's that noise?"

"You got any idea who this Trooper Truth person is?" The governor could barely talk.

"No, sir. But everybody's sure talking about him. What's that? Sounds like somebody ripping bubble wrap. You sure you're all right, sir? Wooo, it sounds like somebody's shooting a gun in the Capitol! It ain't safe! I'll be right there…!"

"No! Don't come here," the governor blurted out as gasses pushed against his organs, struggling to escape.

"Find out who Trooper Truth… who he is. Make that your mission, you hear me? And tell the kitchen staff I want a light supper tonight. For God's sake, no apples or ham. Maybe seafood."

"From Virginia, I guess, sir." Macovich was relieved. Clearly, the governor didn't remember him.

"As long as it's not shad roe."

"Don't believe they catch shad roe this time of year. I can fly a state helicopter to Tangier Island and pick up fresh blue crabs, if that would please you, sir," Macovich added with reluctance because he hated going to Tangier Island. "And maybe trout."

"That's it!" the governor said, startled both by an idea and what sounded to Macovich like a deflating hot air balloon. "We'll start with Tangier Island! You troopers can put the first speed trap over there. Did you know they used to welcome Blackbeard on that island? Bunch of pirates, that's what they are. Well, I'll show them."

"They don't have posted speed limits on Tangier," Macovich pointed out, and he wasn't clear on what speed traps the governor meant. "Most of them Tangierians ride around in golf carts, sir. Or in little boats. And they already don't get along with the rest of Virginia. You mind if I ask what speed traps you're talking about?"

"We don't have a name for it yet." Governor Crimm mopped sweat off his face as his gut continued to play against him in a loud, painful percussion. "Forget the seafood. You can just pick it up when you paint the speed traps on the island first thing tomorrow. Now listen here, Trooper, get up with Trader and he'll brief you. We're going to make life's highways safe again, just like Trooper Truth said in that riddle on his website."

Macovich did not recall noticing a riddle on the Trooper Truth website, or anything at all that might have compelled the governor to decide that speed traps should be set on a remote island in the Chesapeake Bay with a population of less than seven hundred people. Macovich sure didn't want to be dragged into anything that had to do with Tangier Island, where there wasn't a single African American resident. In fact, when he was ordered to fly there to pick up seafood, he got the distinct impression that he was the only African American the Islanders had ever seen, except for ones on TV and in the catalogs the mail boats brought in.

Macovich left the mansion and lit up a Salem Light as he walked around Capitol Square, not especially eager to have a word with the press secretary about this or anything else. That son of a bitch Major Trader couldn't be trusted, and everybody knew it except the governor. Wooo, Macovich worried from inside his cloud of smoke. If the state police started picking on those Tangier people, there was going to be nothing but trouble.

"Let me ask you something," Macovich asked as he walked into Trader's office. "You ever been to Tangier Island or even met a Tangierian?"

"It's not the sort of place I would visit." Trader was perched over his keyboard and eating a chili dog that one of his assistants had brought him for a snack. "How many times do I have to tell you to take your sunglasses off when you're inside a building or it's after dark? I've worked very hard to change the image of all you troopers so the public doesn't perceive you as a bunch of thick-headed brutes." He gobbled up half of the hotdog in one mouthful and dribbled mustard on his stained, unfashionable tie. "Just because you're plainclothes EPU and fly around in helicopters doesn't mean you can go against protocol and make everybody look bad."

"Wooo, we're gonna look bad, all right," Macovich retorted, leaving his sunglasses on. "We go roaring into that island with our big helicopters and start handing out speeding tickets, those people are gonna do something about it."

"I believe that would be a mistake." Trader wiped his flabby lips with a greasy napkin and strategized quickly. The governor had yet to inform him that the first speed traps would be set on Tangier Island, but he wasn't about to let Macovich sense as much. "We'll lock every one of them in jail," he added as if he had already given much thought to the consequences should the Islanders rebel.

"Oh, now that's a good one, Mister Press Secretary," Macovich said, sarcastically. "Let's lock up the entire island of fishermen, women, and children. Not to mention all the old folks. We've got highway pirates running around loose out there beating the shit out of innocent truck drivers and smuggling dope into Canada, but we gonna make sure none of them Tangierians go too fast in their golf carts."

Trader licked his fingers and wiped them on his voluminous trousers. "I wouldn't push my luck, if I were you," he snipped. "Not after you cheated at pool the other night. Naughty, naughty."

"I didn't cheat!" Macovich bellowed so loudly that other state employees poked their heads out of offices up and down the hall.

"The First Family certainly thinks you did, and it's just fortunate for you that the governor has more important matters on his mind," Trader retorted haughtily. "I'd hate to be the one who reminds him that you aren't very popular in the mansion these days. You certainly wouldn't be the first EPU trooper to find himself back in uniform, riding around in a car all day and night."

"Well, Superintendent Hammer ain't gonna do that to me, 'cause then who's gonna fly the governor's old, blind ass around, huh? Who's gonna fly the First Family's lazy big asses around, huh?"

"Would you please lower your voice?" Trader raised his.

Macovich stepped closer to the faux colonial desk, his sunglasses glaring at Trader. "In case you've forgotten," Macovich snarled, "we're down to two helicopter pilots 'cause First Lady Crimm runs 'em all off." Macovich turned to walk out, then spun back around. "And guess what else, Trader? Life ain't no big plantation anymore, and one of these days you're gonna wake up and find yourself smack in the goddamn middle of Gone With the Wind!"

Unique First had never seen Gone With the Wind or read the novel, but she could relate to the expression. She had always been able to disappear without a trace, and as a child had discovered that if she rearranged her molecules while trespassing or breaking into her neighbors' homes, she would become invisible. She followed the cobblestone of Shockhoe Slip and slipped inside Tobacco Company, an upscale restaurant and bar in a renovated old tobacco warehouse not far from the river. Unique sat near the piano and ordered a beer and began to smoke as she relived last night.

Acting as a decoy for the highway pirates was getting boring, if she were to be honest about it. The road dogs she had begun to associate with months ago were small-minded and stoned most of the time. Their leader, in particular, was frying his brain with booze and pot and was so out of it that Unique no longer bothered having sex with him. She tapped an ash and signaled the waitress to bring another beer as she felt the stare of a woman sitting alone at the bar.

"You from out of town?" the woman asked, and her strong energy and hot eyes registered clearly on Unique's sexual radar.

"In and out," Unique evasively replied with her sweet smile.

"Oh." The woman got up and marveled over this pretty woman's unique way of expressing herself. "Mind if I join you?" She set her beer down on Unique's table and pulled out a chair. "My name's T.T., which is really funny now that this Trooper Truth stuff is all over the place. You won't believe it, but people who know me and even strangers all of a sudden got this crazy notion that my initials T.T. stand for Trooper Truth, and just because I wrote for my high school newspaper, I'm supposedly Trooper Truth but don't want anybody to know!"

Unique held T.T.'s gaze and sipped beer.

"Well, I'm not," T.T. went on. "But I wish like hell I was because that's the new mystery in this town: Who is

Trooper Truth? What's the truth about Trooper Truth? Like he's Robin Hood or something. You got any guesses? And you sure have amazing hair. You must brush it all the time."

"I don't know," Unique replied as T.T. bounced her foot and fidgeted nervously like a schoolboy with a crush. "My car's broke down. Maybe you could give me a ride home?"

"Sure!" T.T. said. "Hey, no problem. Man, you got such a quiet voice. Sorry about your car. Man, that's such a bitch when your car fucks up, you know?"

T.T. continued to rattle on as she smacked a ten-dollar bill on the bar and put on her leather biker's jacket. She usually wasn't this successful when she tried to pick up women, but it was about damn time her luck changed. T.T. worked for the state and had to wear dresses and other feminine attire in the office, where no one knew the truth about her private life. So the only opportunity she had for assuaging her loneliness was to dress the part and hang out in bars at night and on weekends. This was expensive and largely unproductive, and her hands were shaking with excitement as she let Unique into her old Honda.

"Which way?" T.T. asked as she pulled out onto Gary Street.

"Let's go down to the dock, you know, off Canal. I love looking at the river. We'll walk on Belle Island," Unique replied in her tiny, hushed voice as her Purpose, as she thought of it, throbbed inside her and a slow burn of ancient rage began to consume her brain.

Minutes later, she and T.T. got out of the Honda and stood along the water, the chilled September air blowing

Unique's hair like black fire. There wasn't another person around and it vaguely penetrated Unique's spell that T.T. was incredibly stupid to wander off with a perfect stranger, and how dare she just assume that Unique was of her persuasion and would be interested. How incredibly stupid the other ones had been, too. Unique took T.T.'s hand and they walked over a footbridge that led to Belle Island, where Union soldiers had been imprisoned during the Civil War. The island was densely wooded and cut with bike paths and trails. Unique pulled T.T. behind a tree and began to kiss and fondle her into a frenzy. "I want you to have a unique experience," Unique whispered as she dug her tongue in T.T.'s mouth and slipped a box cutter out of a pocket.