Lone Wolf

29

BY THE TIME LAWRENCE AND I got back to our cabin, it was dark.

He went into his bedroom and opened the top dresser drawer, where he’d carefully tucked his clothes earlier, and pulled out a black, long-sleeved pullover shirt with a high, almost turtle-like neck.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“I’m getting changed,” Lawrence said. “You might want to do the same.”

“What? Spying on the Wickenses, this is a formal affair?”

Lawrence was stripping off his slacks and pulling on black jeans, tucking in the black shirt. He pulled at the shirt, tenting the fabric. “This kind of thing,” he said. It occurred to me that even his surveillance clothes looked more expensive than the stuff I wore in to the newsroom. “Dark clothes? So you won’t be seen? You’re new at this, aren’t you?”

“I didn’t exactly pack for hiding in the forest,” I said. “In fact, I didn’t get a chance to pack at all.”

Lawrence made a face. “How long you been wearing these clothes?”

I shrugged.

Lawrence sighed and tossed me an extra dark shirt. “Your jeans will be okay,” he said. “This shirt’ll help, but I don’t know what we’re going to do with that Ivory Snow face of yours.”

I unbuttoned the shirt I was wearing, slipped into Lawrence’s, which smelled of fabric softener or something. “This smells nice,” I said. “You do your own laundry?”

“What of it?”

“Okay, tell me this,” I said. “Can you iron?”

“You working up to some sort of gay joke?”

“No no,” I protested. “I just wanted to know whether I could add ironing to the list of things you can do that I can’t. With beating the snot out of people at the top, and ironing at the bottom. God knows how many things in between.”

Lawrence buckled his belt. “Let’s talk about the dogs,” he said.

“Well, you saw them this aft. There’s two. Gristle and Bone. And I’m not even sure, technically speaking, that they’re dogs. They may be very short velociraptors. All muscles and teeth. And from what I’ve seen, as deranged as they are dangerous. The other day, they tried to eat through one of the cabin doors. If your plan is to get into the Wickenses’ house to plant some bugs, you’re out of your mind.” The very thought was making my skin crawl, although that might have been the high neck on the shirt Lawrence had lent me.

“I mean, think about it,” I said. “If the dogs are outside, roaming about the property, you’ll never make it from the fence to the house, and if the dogs are in the kitchen there, where they eat and sleep, there’s no way you’re going to get inside the house.”

Lawrence said nothing.

“And,” I continued, “if it’s your plan to poison the dogs, which, even though I am not the sort of person who condones the murder of house pets, in this case I’d be willing to make an exception, that’s going to arouse their suspicions, don’t you think? Their dogs turn up dead, they’re going to be asking some questions, and I imagine the first people they’re going to ask are me and Dad, and now you, since you’ve made such a terrific first impression on them. And Timmy Wickens does not seem to be the kind of guy who asks questions nicely, even though he didn’t make a fuss about how you got the drop on his boys. Hello? You’re not saying a lot. Do you understand what I’m saying here? Am I coming through?”

Lawrence nodded. “Yes,” he said.

“Tell me you’re not going to poison the dogs.”

Slowly, and thoughtfully, Lawrence said, “I am not going to poison the dogs. If I have to, I’ll shoot them.” My eyebrows went up. “But that’s not my plan at the moment.”

“So what are you going to do?”

Lawrence led me into the main room and opened up his cases filled with surveillance gear. He pulled out a gadget I’d noticed earlier, at the mayor’s place, that looked similar to a gun, but the entire barrel was covered in a soft, black, spongy material.

“Shotgun microphone,” Lawrence said. “You point at something, off in the distance, it picks up those sounds. But I don’t know just how effective it will be. Whether they’ll have their windows open at all. Whether they’ll come outside.”

Then Lawrence picked up those button-like microphones I’d spotted earlier. Each one was about as thick as three pennies, one side smooth, the other dense mesh.

“These are bugs?” I asked.

“Yeah. New model, pretty effective, they advertise that they can withstand moisture, pick up sounds through walls, but the walls have to be pretty thin, in my experience.”

“So, what, we stick it to the outside of the house, hear what’s inside?”

Lawrence shook his head. “No, I don’t think it would be strong enough to work through an outside wall. But I’m wondering…”

“What?”

“If we got one or two of these into the kitchen…”

“Lawrence,” I said, exasperated. “Were you listening two seconds ago? That’s where the dogs stay. You’re not going to get into that kitchen with those dogs there. And besides, there are six people living in that house. Maybe, just maybe, if I got to know May Wickens better…No, even though she wants to get herself and her son away, that doesn’t mean she’d be willing to plant a bug on her own father, and it’s pretty hard to get near her anyway, her dad’s watching her pretty closely.”

“What if,” Lawrence said, “we could use the dogs?”

“Huh?” I stared at him. “What are you talking about?”

“The dogs are our biggest problem. Why not make them part of the solution?”

“I still don’t get you. What, we hook them up with a Dog Cam? Like on Letterman? Sure, why don’t you do that. I’m sure they’d hold still while you rigged them up.”

Lawrence shook his head. “Nothing that obvious. What if we got some of these little guys”-he held the button-sized mike up between his thumb and index finger-“into the dogs?”

I smiled. “You’re kidding me.”

“I’ve never tried something like this before, but what the hey, it might be worth a shot. We give the dogs something to eat, we shove the mikes into the food, hope they swallow them whole. Dogs go lie down in the kitchen, bugs in their tummy, we listen in.”

“You’re serious.”

Lawrence smiled. “I’ve never been more so.”

I couldn’t conceal my admiration. “You know, at this very moment, I find you very hot.”

Lawrence studied the mike in his hand. “I’ve told you before, you’re not my type.”

“How many of these are you going to need? How many do you have?”

“I’ve got a half dozen of them. We get some Alpo, slip it into bowls and set it over the fence, they’re bound to sniff it out. We hide the mikes in the dog food, we might get lucky.”

“You know,” I said, “I can get something those dogs like better than Alpo.”

It took me a while to find the fish guts burial ground in the dark, but when the trees opened up and my flashlight caught the cottage shutter on the forest floor and the pile of dirt with a shovel already sticking out of it, I whispered to Lawrence, “Welcome to my new job.”

We’d found two metal galvanized pails back in the open garage that was attached to the workshed, tucked in behind Dad’s souped-up lawn tractor. I flipped the shutter off the hole, and about two feet down a layer of dirt covered the last load I’d dumped in. I’d gone first to the can of fish guts down by the lake, but recalled that I had emptied it earlier in the day, and when I lifted off the lid I saw there was nothing in it but a single filleted perch. It had been, evidently, a lousy fishing day at Denny’s Cabins. Not hard to understand, given that we’d lost one guest fleeing a bear, and Bob was probably too traumatized to do anything but sit in his cabin. Betty and Hank Wrigley just weren’t able to pick up the slack.

I yanked the shovel out of the dirt pile and drove it into the top layer of dirt. There was a soft, squooshy noise. I brought up a couple shovels full of dirt, then the main event.

“Oh my God,” Lawrence said as I displayed for him the array of guts and fins and scales and eyeballs on the shovel blade. “That is, without a doubt, just about the most horrible mess I have ever seen in my entire life, except for maybe Eyes Wide Shut. You see that movie?”

“Hold out the buckets.”

“Fuck no. I’ll set them down here. You fill ’ em up. I think I’ll just wander over there and vomit.”

The guts slid off the shovel and into the first pail.

“You’re telling me these dogs love this stuff?”

“Like candy,” I said.

I worked the shovel into the hole again, got a load for the second bucket, and dumped it in.

“Alpo would’ve worked fine,” Lawrence said. “And it wouldn’t have stunk anywhere near as bad.”

“This stuff’ll slide right down their throats like Jell-O,” I said. “They won’t even have to chew it.”

“I really don’t feel well,” Lawrence said.

“Drop the mikes in.”

Lawrence tossed one into each bucket.

“They expensive?” I asked.

“Don’t even ask.”

“And you say they’re moisture resistant?”

“Supposed to be. Although I doubt the prototypes were ever subjected to this kind of test.”

“If it works, how long do you think they’ll be useful?” I asked.

In the moonlight, I could see Lawrence shrug. “How long’s it take for something to go through a dog?”

“Twelve hours maybe? I hate to tell you, but the Wickenses don’t strike me as stoop-and-scoop people. You’re not gonna be getting these back.”

“Your loss. I was going to give them to you.”

Once I had a couple of inches in guts in each pail, I shoved the shovel blade back into the dirt pile. Lawrence was being so squeamish, I didn’t bother to ask him to grab the pails.

“Let’s go feed our puppies,” I said. “Do you think you could manage to throw some dirt over those exposed guts and drag the shutter back over the hole?”

“Uh, no thanks,” said Lawrence. “I don’t mind offering my detection services for free, but there are limits to what I’ll do.”

I decided I could deal with the hole later and led Lawrence through the trees toward the wire fence that surrounded the farmhouse. The house sat about thirty yards away, and we were looking at it from the side. It looked peaceful and ominous at the same time. Lights were on downstairs and up, and even from here, you could hear the soft sounds of people talking inside. The barn, off to the right, was a black square on a black canvas, large and foreboding. The only outside light was over the door on the front porch to our left.

“What if the dogs aren’t outside to eat this shit?” I said.

“They gotta let them out at some point before they all go to bed,” Lawrence figured.

We’d also brought along a wire coat hanger that I’d untwisted so I had a long hook with which to lower the pails over the fence. Carefully, I set them into position without letting them tip over. Lawrence and I moved a few feet back from the fence, stood there in the quiet night, and stared at the house.

“Come on,” Lawrence said under his breath. “Let those bastards out.”

Every minute or so, a light wind would come up, and the smell of fish guts would waft our way.

After five minutes of staring at the house, I said, “It’s going to take me a while to get my head around this thing with Dad, and Orville. You think you know everything, then you realize you don’t know shit. My mother, she was a good person.”

“I’ll bet she was.”

“But she kept secrets her whole life.”

“That’s what people do,” Lawrence said.

I thought about that. “Even you?”

In the moonlight, I could see the corners of his mouth go up a notch. “Especially me. My dad, he never knew my full story.”

I remembered my visit to the hospital, when Lawrence lay near death in the intensive care ward, and the chat I’d had with his sister Letitia. “Your sister made mention of that. She gave me the sense that you kept your secret from your father not so much to protect yourself as to spare him.”

“He was a good man,” Lawrence said. “He just wouldn’t have understood. I’m who I am. I don’t expect the whole world to change to suit me.” Lawrence squinted. “Door’s opening.”

I trained my eyes on the farmhouse. The porch door swung open, a woman’s voice. Charlene, I thought.

“Away ya go,” she said.

And out bolted Gristle and Bone. The huffed and snorted as they bounded down the steps, each starting to go his separate way, and then, almost simultaneously, they froze.

“Jesus,” said Lawrence. “Look. They’ve caught the scent already.”

The dogs, still standing in the glow of the porch light, a couple of nightmarish beasts of the night, raised up their heads, sniffed the air. Gristle glanced at Bone (or the other way around, I couldn’t be certain), and then, as if on cue, they started running in tandem.

Right toward us. Or at least, I hoped, the two buckets that were between them and us, on the other side of the fence.

Once they were on the move, we could barely see them, just dark shadows barreling quickly across the ground, closing the distance. They were to the buckets in seconds, both going to the one on the left at the same time, trying to jam their heads into it. But then Bone pulled his head out, saw the other bucket only a few feet away, and shifted over.

They had their heads in the pails for nearly a minute, slopping up the guts and bones and fins, these canine garbage suckers. Gristle knocked his bucket over, pushed it around with his head, trying to get every last morsel.

“Shit,” said Lawrence. “If he pushes that bucket too far, we won’t be able to retrieve it. We can’t have anyone seeing those buckets there in the morning.”

When Bone was done, he ran off in the direction of the barn, and his buddy followed. I used the straightened coat hanger and managed to get both pails back over the fence. Carefully, so as not to be seen from the farmhouse, I shone the light into both of them.

“Nothing left,” Lawrence said, rubbing his hands together. “Not a scrap, not a single bone, and no mikes. I’ll get my toys set up and we’ll see if this is going to work.”

“You know, this is crazy,” I said. “But I’m just a tiny bit hungry. Did we even have dinner?”