The Body of Martin Aguilera

Chapter Four

The place was dead still when Lewis arrived. A thunderhead was forming over the hills. Lewis took a deep breath and got out of his car. Looking at the cabin, he could almost see Martin stepping out and showing that boyish smile. Martin had been a good friend. He’d been in the army and had known black people. Lewis wasn’t treated badly by the Indians and Mexicans, but he didn’t completely fit in. He had been comfortable with Martin.

He walked slowly toward the corral which was behind the house. He looked at the ground and thought he might be able to learn something, like if anybody had come back after he and the sheriff left, but he couldn’t tell anything. He laughed at himself, thinking that an elephant could have stomped over this ground and he wouldn’t know the difference. And so he looked at the empty corral and learned nothing. He turned and looked up the canyon.

As he walked up the canyon, he thought how it didn’t seem real that Martin was dead. The canyon channeled a breeze into his face. He followed a trail to his right that climbed up a ridge and after a hundred or so yards he was looking down at the canyon floor. He studied the trail, looked up the slope beside him and across at the other side. He found some old bear scat and felt better about his ability to find something. He came upon a place where deer had bedded down and sat on a fallen tree. He looked up and saw a raven fly by. Then he realized that he was hearing no birds. He had heard none since starting up. He hadn’t seen or heard any squirrels or chipmunks. The deer droppings at his feet were old just like the bear scat.

A chill ran over Lewis. He was up quickly and moving back down the trail. He tried to think, but it was difficult. He was almost tickled at how scared he was. He stopped again to listen. Nothing. He whistled the only bird call he knew, a brown wren, but there was no response. The raven was long gone.

As he reached the mouth of the canyon, he remembered the tassel-eared squirrel he’d seen near the cabin. He walked around the cabin, then inside. Everything looked normal, in place. He opened the cabinet where Martin kept his cereals and sugar, then closed it. Outside, he walked around the house again.

He thought it was a snake at first and it gave him a start. But it was bushy. It was still. He reached down and pulled the dead squirrel from under a pile of scrap wood. Lewis studied it. The hair was gone from several spots on the small animal’s body and the flesh was raw. Lewis felt sick. He carried the squirrel to his car and sat on the hood, tried to catch his breath.

“Martin,” he said out loud to the house. “What in the world is going on?”

Lewis wrapped the squirrel in an old towel he had in the car and walked toward the door of the veterinarian’s office. The vet was pretty new and so the place was clean and efficient looking. There was a tall bay in the cross-ties and a Mexican boy was rubbing a salve on the horse’s back. Inside, a fat white man and his yellow Labrador looked at Lewis. The dog stood up, his nose measuring the air. Lewis hurried to the desk of the assistant who immediately began trying to steal a peek into the bundle.

“And who do we have here?” she asked.

“This is my pet and I want to see the doctor.”

Unable to see anything, she readied a pencil over a form. “Name?”

“Lewis Mason.”

“Pet’s name?”

“Mortimer.”

“What is Mortimer, Mr. Mason?”

“Mortimer is sick, ma’am.”

“I can well imagine that he is. He’s probably suffocating.”

“If you knew Mortimer, you’d know that’s not possible.”

The woman’s patience was growing short. “What kind of animal?”

“Are you the doctor?”

“No, but the doctor needs to know,” she said, her back straightening.

“I think the doctor will know what Mortimer is as soon as he sees him.”

Lewis thought the woman might cry. As she struggled through her question again, the vet, a middle-aged man with a belly, appeared behind her.

“Problem?” the vet asked.

The woman composed herself. “This is Mr. Mason. He refuses to tell what his pet is.”

“I’m sure we can clear this up in the examination room,” Lewis said.

The vet looked at him and then at the yellow Labrador. He asked the assistant, “Who was here first?”

“Mr. Wilson and his dog.” She looked at Lewis as she said “dog.”

“I’m sure Mr. Wilson won’t mind if I see Mr. Mason first,” the doctor said.

Wilson gestured for him to go ahead.

The assistant glared at Lewis as he stepped around the desk into the hallway. He followed the vet into a room and laid the bundle on a table.

“Mortimer?” the vet asked.

“Indeed,” Lewis said and unwrapped the squirrel.

The vet paused. “What happened?”

“I was hoping you could tell me.”

The doctor began to slip on rubber gloves. “Why don’t you wash your hands over there.”

Lewis went to the sink and washed.

“Where’d you find it?”

“Does it matter?”

“It might? Near a dump? These look like acid burns. But I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Let me ask you something. Does it make sense that a person can go into the forest and not see or hear any birds?”

“Just because you don’t see or hear them doesn’t mean they’re not there.”

“They weren’t there.”

“A falcon or an eagle could have come into the area.”

“I suppose.”

“My name is Peabody, Cyril Peabody.” The vet peeled off a glove and put out his hand to shake.

Lewis took it. “Lewis Mason. Pleased to meet you, Dr. Peabody.”

“Cyril.”

“Call me Lewis.”

Cyril scratched his chin. “So, you want to tell me what’s going on?”

“It stays here,” Lewis said.

Cyril nodded.

“Someone murdered a friend of mine. Martin Aguilera.”

“An old man?”

“You know him?”

The vet looked at the squirrel. “That’s it,” he muttered. “He brought his dog in three, maybe four weeks ago, with burns. The dog wasn’t dead yet, but he was on his way.”

“He took the dog with him?”

“He wouldn’t let me keep him.” He sat on a stool. “Somebody killed him?”

Lewis blew out a breath. “I think so. I found him dead, but when I went back with the sheriff, the body was gone.”

Lewis imagined that Cyril was now skeptical. “My granddaughter was with me. She saw him, too.”

“What did the sheriff say?”

“What could he say?” Lewis wrapped the squirrel up again. “Thanks for looking at Mortimer.”

“Wait. Where you going?”

“Home.”

Cyril scratched his belly through his denim shirt. “Want me to ride out to the old man’s place with you?”

Lewis studied the man. “Okay.”

“I’ve got to look at that dog out there. You mind waiting?”

Lewis shook his head. “Can you get rid of the squirrel?”

“No problem.”

Lewis went back to the lobby and waited. He smiled at the assistant, but she ignored him. “Mortimer died,” he said.

She looked up.

“Mortimer is dead.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “What was Mortimer?”

“Alive.”

She went back to the papers on her desk.