Текст книги "Foodchain"

Автор книги: Jeff Jacobson

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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 24 страниц)

Frank hung back from the clowns and made his way over to the table. “What’re the odds?”

“No odds here. Just even money,” the guy sitting at the table said.

“I’ll be back.”

The guy shrugged. “I wouldn’t wait too long, mister. Window closes in…” He peered up at a clock enclosed in steel mesh above the chalkboard. “Three minutes.”

Frank nodded. “I’ll be back.”

The other guy walked over until he was standing above the tunnel. He held up a bullhorn. Reading off a sheet, he spoke in a flat, emotionless tone. “Welcome to the one hundred and fourth annual summer fights. In the championship fight, we have thirteen year-old Ernie Glouck at one hundred and fourteen pounds…” There was a smattering of applause but the clowns started booing, drowning out the applause. “Versus thirteen year-old Theodore Sturm at one hundred and twenty-three pounds.” There was a lot of cheering for Sturm. The clowns went nuts, applauding, whistling, shouting.

The fighters appeared. Theodore Sturm had his blond hair cut short, but it looked expensive, too perfect, as if the artful spikes had been shaped and gelled by a professional hairdresser. His lips were drawn in a thin slash. His nostrils were wide and pumping; eyes flat and hard. Well-defined muscles wriggled up and down his arms. Frank figured the kid had been hitting the weights for five or six years solid. Theo’s taped fists popped the air in a flurry of combinations, right, right, left—left, right, left, left. The kid was quick; Frank gave him that much.

The man behind Theo was the same little guy from the restroom at the fairgrounds. Horace Sturm hung back, dark and squatting in the shadows, a goddamn midget Grim Reaper in that black, flat-brimmed cowboy hat and ankle-length duster. Frank watched closely, then checked the clock. Two minutes left.

Ernie Glouck followed Theo. Ernie had a severe buzzcut, so short Frank could see worms of scar tissue like mountain ranges on a relief map, exclamation points of pain across the kid’s skull. Like Theo, he wore shorts and a T-shirt. But while Theo’s shorts looked like expensive boxing trunks, maybe even silk, Ernie’s were oversize jean cutoffs. They hung below his knees, drawn up tight around his narrow hips with a length of extension cord.

His two moms followed Ernie. They looked like somebody had put two shapeless housedresses on a couple of dull and pitted hatchets and walked them around. Five or six older brothers darted between the two mothers, offering strong words of advice and thumping the scarred skull. Ernie flinched easy. Too easy, Frank figured.

He pulled out a twenty, flattened it on the bare plywood, and said. “That’s twenty on Ernie Glouck.”

“Twenty on Glouck. Name?” the guy at the table asked.

Frank said, “Winchester.”

The guy wrote down the name and slipped the twenty into the box. Frank headed up the stairs to a nearly empty bench at the top. Just as he sat down, the rest of the men rose to their feet. Their right hand came to a rest over their hearts.

Frank finally realized that they were looking at the United States flag that hung vertically above the sodium lights just as everyone started in a slow, jagged rhythm, “I pledge allegiance, to the flag, of the United States of America. And to the republic, for which it stands …” Frank got to his feet and mumbled along. It had been a while, and he couldn’t quite remember the words. “…with liberty, and justice for all.” Everybody sat back down. All talking stopped. The hollow sound of hard leather soles scraping ridged aluminum ceased. Nobody breathed.

* * * * *

Theo and Ernie walked into the ring, eyeballing each other. The gate closed behind them. They backed into opposite corners, Theo bouncing on the balls of his feet, Ernie rolling his head on his neck.

Horace Sturm approached the ring, eyes cloaked in the shadow from his hat. Several silent moments crawled by, until finally the guy with the microphone held up a large bell and hit it with a hammer.

Frank could only hear the rustling of the boys’ bare feet in the sawdust and their quick, shallow breathing as they slipped away from the gates and approached the center of the ring. Neither wore boxing gloves, just medical tape that bound their fingers into tight fists. They circled each other for a few seconds, bobbing and weaving, feinting and rolling their shoulders, sizing each other up. Ernie threw a half-hearted jab with his right, easily blocked by Theo.

Pine shouted, “Knock his fuckin’ head in the dirt, boy!”

Horace Sturm shot him a look. Pine got quiet.

The two boys kept circling, throwing short, cautious jabs.

Then Theo got impatient and went for it. He stepped in close, faking with his right, all the while lowering his left shoulder, preparing to bring his left fist up. Ernie saw it coming. Frank saw it coming. Everybody saw it coming. Ernie flicked in close, jabbed Theo in the nose. Surprised blood popped out of Theo’s nose. His head snapped back as his left uppercut went sailing up through empty air.

Ernie hit Theo in the nose two more times before dancing away.

Theo shook his head, spraying blood over the sawdust. Ernie came in from the side, cracked Theo in the left ear. Theo backpedaled, holding his taped fists up over his bleeding face. But Ernie stayed right with him, slamming his fists into Theo’s stomach, doubling the rich kid over.

For the first time in his life, Theo panicked. And without thinking, he tried to kick Ernie in the balls.

The room froze for a split second in a glacier of silence, then erupted in shouting and stomping. Ernie’s brothers leapt onto the gates and screamed up at the two men under the chalkboard. In response, the clowns jumped off their seats and climbed onto the gates that encircled the ring, shouting at the Glouck family. The rest of the crowd rose, as one, to their feet.

But Ernie, after years of getting kicked and kneed in the crotch, was used to this trick, almost expecting it, blocked Theo’s clumsy kick easily. He retaliated by savagely punching Theo in the face. Theo stumbled back, desperately trying to block the relentless pounding. He hit the gates near his father and doubled over, protecting his head. Ernie didn’t let up; now he could take his time, gritting his teeth, slamming blow after blow down, cracking his taped knuckles across Theo’s skull.

Horace Sturm never moved.

Finally Theo crumpled and he fell, curled up, drawing his knees tight against his chest. Ernie rested for a moment, arms shivering, then started kicking Theo. He stopped just long enough to spit on Theo’s back.

The clowns leapt over the gates, swarming Ernie. Instantly, the Glouck brothers flew over the gates and attacked the clowns. For a moment, chaos reigned inside the ring. Grunts, shouts, blows, and curses filled the room. Frank lost track of who was fighting whom. He glanced up, beyond the ring, at Horace Sturm.

Slowly, calmly, Sturm pulled that six-shooter out of its holster and held it tight against his leg. And just as Frank realized that Sturm might just shoot somebody for the hell of it, a gunshot shattered the air and a blue cloud of gunpowder erupted from around Sturm, rolling through the ring like ground fog. The clowns and the Gloucks stopped fighting. Reluctantly.

As the smoke cleared, Frank saw that Sturm had fired directly into the ground, just an inch from the outside of his right foot. If it had been anyone else, it would have looked as if the person had fired the revolver by accident, arm straight down, aiming at the floor, but by the look in Sturm’s eyes, it didn’t look as if he was the type to do anything by accident. Especially around firearms.

The two sides parted quick and suddenly froze, as if unable to admit the gunshot had caught their attention. They backed away from the center of the ring, out of the light. The Glouck boys pulled Ernie back. The clowns helped Theo to his feet.

Sturm stepped forward, fingers still tight around the revolver’s handle. He eyed the men in the ring, his son, and then the crowd, taking his time, letting the silence gather and build. The crowd stood still, afraid to even sit down. Finally, Sturm spoke. “This fight is finished.” His voice was low. “I declare Ernie Glouck the winner, by default.”

The Glouck family erupted in shouts, screams. Everybody else was silent, nobody even moved.

Sturm reholstered his pistol, speaking slow. “My son…my son will regret this night for the rest of his life. These fights are over.”

DAY THREE

Frank didn’t advertise the fact that he’d bet on Ernie Glouck. The clowns were pissed and wanted to go raise some hell. They wanted to get back at the Gloucks somehow, but nobody suggested actually going on over to the Glouck’s house, although Pine and Chuck wanted to go collect their shotguns and at least shoot the shit out of that satellite dish. But Jack wouldn’t let them, pointing out that Sturm would be pissed. In the end, they stood around their pickups in the auction yard parking lot, drinking some more, bitching about those goddamn Gloucks, and chucking the occasional rock out into the night.

Finally, around three or four in the morning, the clowns passed out. They had offered a bunk to Frank, but he declined. Something was itching, gnawing at the inside of his skull like a trapped, hungry rat, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep. Jack offered to give him a lift back to the long black car at the fairgrounds, but Frank decided to just walk, see if he couldn’t figure out what was eating at him.

He headed back, along dark, quiet streets of abandoned houses and dead lawns. The air felt mercifully cool. Thanks to the beer and Seagrams, Frank felt pretty good. Confident. Almost even optimistic. His sense of humor was back. But even in that condition, he had to admit to himself that the possibilities of a future safe from Castellari were getting slimmer.

Maybe that’s what was bugging him. The sinking feeling that he would be looking over his shoulder for the rest of his life. But he wasn’t sure. It didn’t feel right; that didn’t seem like that was the little tickling thorn in his brain. Maybe it was the alcohol, dulling the effects of fear.

He kept walking, through the center of town, down buckled sidewalks along a Main Street wide enough to fit four or five lanes of traffic. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been in a town this small, and the silence surprised him.

An honest-to-God tumbleweed bounced lazily along the curb. To Frank’s eyes, it seemed small for a tumbleweed, maybe only two feet straight through, but it didn’t matter, not really. It was a sign.

An overwhelming sense of being in the West washed over him, stopping him short and leaving him weaving slightly in the center of the wide street. It wasn’t just the geographical sense of being in the West either, it was more like stepping into a land of myth and legend. A landscape that never truly existed, except in dreams. This was a land of possibilities, a land where someone quick, someone sharp, someone willing to do whatever it took, this was a land where someone could make something of themselves. The wave of civilization had crested out here, to be sure, but it hadn’t crashed yet, hadn’t flattened out and receded, settling everything into place. Everything was still topsy-turvy; the silt was churned and the waters muddy. A man could establish himself in the murk, where people couldn’t see clearly, and when the waters did calm, and the silt finally settled, that man would have something to stand on. He’d be ready. Frank nodded to himself, flush with the drunken importance of a heavy philosophical realization, and started walking again.

Nearly every building was empty, either gutted and hollow, or had large sheets of particleboard over the windows and a ‘For Rent’ sign nailed to the front door. Apart from an ancient grocery store, the only other place still in business had a carved wooden sign, hanging motionless in the still air, that read “Dickinson Taxidermy.”

Frank stopped for a moment, cupping his hands on the dusty, cobwebbed windows and peering inside. A long workbench stretched along the right side, under a wall full of various knives and hatchets. A sign had been tacked up in the back, “You shoot it, we’ll stuff it.” Large boxes littered the rest of the room. And the heads. Deer, elk, antelope, and boar. Some complete, hung up on the left wall, frozen in an eternity of blank, open staring. Other heads were in a reversal of decay; after being stripped down to the bone, they were being built back up, antlers bolted to skulls, hide tacked to frozen backbones, glass eyes popped back into sockets.

The itching thorn was suddenly yanked from his brain as an idea hit him.

Frank held the thorn, all sharp and glistening in the starlight, up in front of him. A sequence of possibilities clicked into place like the tumblers of a padlock, and suddenly the future didn’t seem quite so tight. He started moving again, not seeing the street anymore, instead sifting through the variables, the difficulties, and the risks. Deep down, he didn’t think it would work. He made his way to the fairgrounds and crawled into the backseat of the long black car and watched the stars slowly fade into the sky as morning broke.

* * * * *

He drove back to the gas station and brushed his teeth with his finger, tried to straighten out his hair a little, shaved using a disposable razor and spit, and put on the fresh suit from the trunk. Then he followed the highway out north of town, past the fairgrounds, past the auction yard, out into the flooded rice fields, watching for the cluster of buildings that he’d seen last night. It took a while, but he finally found the driveway.

It was more of a private road, really, lined with towering palm trees. Frank suddenly remembered that he was still in California. The driveway stretched for over a mile. There had to be more than a couple hundred palm trees; they were sixty or seventy feet tall at least, rising above the walnut and oak trees that surrounded the rice fields.

Eventually, the road split in half around a huge lawn. The house loomed behind the half acre of perfect grass, two-stories, in a strange amalgamation of styles. Southern pillars out front, flanking the front door. Farmhouse windows, sunk into stuccoed walls. Red clay shingles, Mediterranean-style. Frank pulled around to the right and parked the car in front of the door.

He climbed out and felt like someone was watching him, but the windows were blank mirrors, reflecting the morning sun. He buttoned the top two buttons of the suit jacket and walked briskly up the front steps. He pushed the doorbell and stepped back from the large, wooden double-doors to show respect. The sun climbed higher, and sweat collected in his sideburns, rolled down his armpits.

The right door opened and Theo glared up at Frank. He had a split lip and two black eyes. One nostril was swollen shut. “What do you want?” It sounded like he was trying to talk and swallow melted cheese at the same time.

“Your father home?”

“Why?” Theo’s breathing sounded painful.

“I’d like to talk to him.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m the guy who wants to talk to your father.”

Theo glared at Frank for a while but eventually said, “Wait here.” He shut the door and Frank respectfully stepped back, off the front porch, and prepared himself.

After a few minutes, the door opened again, wider this time. Theo tilted his head. “He’s in his office. C’mon.”

Frank followed Theo into a modest foyer. Carhart jackets hung from an oak coat rack. Cowboy boots lined the walnut paneled walls. Theo glanced at Frank’s feet. “Take off your boots. Dad don’t like outside boots inside.”

Frank didn’t want to, but he pulled off the snakeskin cowboy boots, settling his bare feet on the smooth, warm wood floor.

Theo watched Frank a moment. “You got something against socks?”

“Yeah.”

Theo shrugged, then led Frank through a gigantic kitchen. The house was silent, save for the slow, deep ticking of a grandfather clock. They went down a long hall that ended abruptly in a closed door. Theo knocked quietly, then opened the door.

The first thing that hit Frank was the books. Thousands of them, lining the walls, stretching from the wood floor to the wood paneled ceiling. Sounds seemed to sink into the pages and vanish. Dozens, possibly hundreds of small picture frames surrounded the window. Frank couldn’t see what was inside the frames because brutal sunlight sizzled into the room, slicing through the dancing dust motes and falling full upon Frank’s sweating face. He blinked several times.

“Something I can do for you, mister?” Sturm’s voice sounded tired, raw.

Frank made his way over to two antique chairs. They faced an oak desk large enough to bury four people comfortably. Sturm waited behind the desk, his back to the window, fingers loosely clasped on the bare wood. His skull reminded Frank of a bare bulb in the sunlight.

Frank wasn’t sure if he should sit or remain standing. He chose to stand. “My name is Frank Winter.” He took a step forward, extending his hand. Sturm didn’t rise, but grasped Frank’s hand in a quick, perfunctory shake. Frank marveled at the size of the man’s hands; they seemed disproportionately large, as if Sturm’s hands and head belonged to another, bigger, body.

“I am here under…unusual circumstances.”

Sturm’s face remained in silhouette, except his eyes, as if they were lit from inside by a cold fire. Frank’s prepared speech crumbled and fell to pieces around his naked toes. He would have rather tried to talk to the Glouck’s mutant pit bull, Petunia. “And uh, with that in mind, I, uh, would like to offer you a business proposition.”

Sturm leaned back. “Is that so. Well, then. Guess it would depend on these special circumstances.”

Frank nodded, pinned like a dead moth under the weight of Sturm’s hairless stare. Either he told the truth, confessed his sins, or he thanked Sturm for his time, climbed back into the long black car, and kept running. “Mind if I sit down?”

“I’m a busy man, Mr. Winter. ‘Case you haven’t heard, I don’t have much time left.”

“I have heard, and I appreciate your, uh, situation.” Frank sat. “In fact, that’s why I am here today. I may be able to help you.”

“I have cancer, Mr. Winter. Unless you got a cure for one fat brain tumor, I’m afraid you can’t help shit.”

“No sir. I don’t claim to have the cure for cancer.” Frank met Sturm’s glacier eyes. “But I might just have a way to make the days you have left around here,” Frank made sure Sturm understood he was talking about the town, “a bit more enjoyable. Maybe even more…worthwhile. Respectable even.” Frank knew he was pushing it.

“Spit it out, son.”

Frank sat. “I am, well, used to be anyway, a vet. Horses, mostly. I worked on a few racetracks for, well, let’s call ’em businessmen. Businessmen that didn’t like to lose. They didn’t see much sport in racing thoroughbreds. They just saw…opportunities. And, well,” Frank shrugged, “I don’t get around so well anymore since I got kicked in the head. It didn’t help my finances. So I helped these gentlemen take advantage of these opportunities.”

Sturm clasped his thick, stubby fingers in front of his chest and waited patiently.

“Anyways, one of these opportunities didn’t work out.” Frank looked down at his bare feet on the wood floor. “It didn’t work out at all.” He looked back up, met Sturm’s eyes again. “In a place not too far from here. A place with a lot of animals. Exotic animals. Lions. Tigers. Monkeys. Even goddamn alligators.

“Now,” Frank leaned forward, “you seem like a man who can appreciate the finer things in life. I’m not talking about material things. No. I’m talking about things like skills. I’m talking about things like the relationship between a predator and its prey. I’m talking about instinct. I’m talking about hunting. I can provide you with an opportunity for the hunt of a lifetime. A hunt like this town has never seen. A goddamn safari in your own backyard. A chance to hunt—and eat—and mount—lions. Tigers. Monkeys. A rhinoceros. And all the gators you can shoot.”

Frank leaned back, crossed his legs. “But I don’t want any misunderstandings here. These animals aren’t for sale. We’d have to go in there…and take them.”

Sturm didn’t say anything for a while. “So…basically, you’re talking about a, a heist? Is that it?”

“Basically, yeah.”

“You’re asking me to break the law.”

“Technically, yeah. But, and this is the important thing, this, this heist, is unnaturally safe. There’s no law enforcement involved. None at all. There’s only one man. One man that feeds the animals. And I’ll take care of that element. Of him.” Frank realized he wasn’t talking in complete sentences anymore, but he didn’t care, he just wanted to spit it out, to get all the details on the table. “All you gotta do is go pick up these animals. And they’re yours.”

“And what’s in it for you?”

“Finder’s fee. A safari’d set you back ten grand, easy. I’m looking for ten percent.” Frank figured a grand would get him to Canada.

“So, you want one thousand dollars, just to point me in the direction of these animals.”

“And to make sure the keeper doesn’t bother you.”

Sturm watched Frank for a long time. Finally he lowered his steepled fingers. “Son, you’re either telling the truth or you’re so full of shit it’s about to start dripping from your ears.”

Frank didn’t say anything.

Sturm drummed his fingertips on the desk. “Will Rogers used to say he never met a man he didn’t like. I’d say he never got out much.” He barked out a harsh, quick laugh.

Frank stood. “I’m sorry to have wasted your time. Good day and good luck with the time you have left.”

“Now hold on just a minute, son. Didn’t mean any disrespect. No sir. None at all. Just a little short on patience since my boy fucked up the fights this year. But that don’t mean I got to take it out on everyone.” He stood as well, and looked up at Frank. “You say you’re a horse doctor?”

“Yeah.”

“Then come with me. Afterwards, maybe we’ll talk about this hunt of yours.”

* * * * *

Sturm led Frank through an elaborate garden. Frank couldn’t see any weeds, not even a tip poking through the rich black soil, as he passed through rows of tomatoes, squash, and corn. But the plants themselves were wilted and dying. The squash looked like used condoms and the tomatoes like raisins. They went through a white picket gate at the far end and walked up to a bright red barn.

Inside, a tired, still horse waited within a spacious stall filled with pine shavings. “This is Sarah.” Sturm fished in the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a peppermint. He crackled the wrapper, catching the old horse’s attention. The horse was old. She was a deep red quarter horse, appearing startlingly thick and stocky to Frank, who was used to the lean, long-limbed thoroughbreds. Sturm gently stroked the horse’s neck as he popped the peppermint free from the wrapper. He expertly caught the clear plastic wrapper between his thumb and forefinger and rolled the striped candy into the center of his palm as he offered it to the horse. Sarah tenderly took the peppermint in her teeth, crunching it, then bouncing her head slightly in pleasure.

“This horse is going to take me to my family’s cabin where I am going to die.” Sturm spoke evenly, giving each word careful consideration, but without emotion. “It’s an eleven mile ride, due west, straight into the mountains,” he indicated with a nod of his bald head, “and I want to make sure she can make it back. See,” he turned his attention from the horse and focused his frozen eyes on Frank, “I plan on dying in that cabin. I know I don’t have much time. I’ll be goddamned if I’m going to die in some hospital. No. To hell with that. I’m going to die on the land of my forefathers, like a man. Not like a…a failed lab experiment. And what I want to know is, is she sound enough to make the trip back? She’s damn near twenty. It’s bad enough that one of us has to die on this trip. I don’t want to be responsible for her death as well.”

“Eleven miles? What kind of terrain?” Frank knelt. Under his breath, he whispered soothing words to the horse as he gently curled his hand around the slim bones just above the right ankle.

“Mountains. Soft dirt. Logs. Rocks. It ain’t pasture, or racetrack, if that’s what you mean.”

Frank carefully prodded the protruding bones just above the hoof, then repeated the movements with the left leg. He stood, bent over, and slowly coaxed Sarah into lifting her front right leg, gently flexing it.

Frank tested the other leg. “She’s flexing a little sore, but nothing major. Rub her down with some DMSO, wrap her legs at night. Got any magnetic boots?”

“No. No new age bullshit around this barn.”

“Then just wrap her at night. Keep these ankles warm.” Frank stepped back. “It’s hard to say. I’d have to see her move.”

“Then let’s take her for a walk.” Sturm clipped a lead line onto Sarah’s halter and said, “C’mon girl. Let’s see how you walk.” Frank followed the stocky horse and the short man out of the stall, into the aisle, and outside into a large paddock. He watched closely for any hitches, any hesitation, any signs that the horse was reluctant to put weight on any of her legs. Sarah moved stiffly, but without any apparent pain.

“She looks good, but to be absolutely sure, I’m gonna have to do a flex test,” Frank said. “You know how it works?”

Sturm nodded, then said, “I ain’t feelin’ up to run today.” He hollered at the house. “Theo! You got three seconds. One! Two!” The back door banged open and Theo came sprinting out.

“You mind watching the clock?” Frank asked Sturm as he pulled Sarah’s front right leg up, curling it against itself, cradling it between his chest and thigh. Sturm counted off sixty seconds, Frank released the leg, and Theo took the lead line and trotted the horse straight across the paddock. Frank watched with a critical eye. Then they repeated the procedure with the three remaining legs.

Afterwards, Frank said, “She’s old, she’s stiff, and yeah, she’s a little sore. But she shouldn’t have a problem. Up there and back, not really. Not if she takes it easy.”

Sturm nodded and almost smiled.

* * * * *

Sturm made Frank point out where exactly where he though the zoo was on a map before he made his decision. Frank leaned over crisp folds of the highway map, laid over a well-oiled butcher block, and traced until he hit the third rest stop, then followed the next highway south. “Somewhere in here.”

Sturm said, “Okay. But understand this, and understand it well. You fuck with me, I will kill you quick. I got nothing to lose.”

Frank said, “Yeah.” * * * * *

Sturm didn’t pack much. A rifle, some beef jerky, an old milk jug full of water left in the freezer, a pair of binoculars, and a pair of walkie-talkies. Theo loaded everything except the rifle into a small black backpack.

They didn’t talk at all during the drive. Sturm didn’t even turn on the radio. Frank had to sit with his knees spread wide, wedged up against the dashboard, since Sturm had the bench seat moved all the way forward so his feet could reach the pedals.

It was nearly dusk when they reached the zoo. Sturm drove slowly, eyeballing the place. Frank felt a squirming, itching panic surge through his chest as he wondered if the quiet gentlemen waited on the other side. The place looked dead, not much different than three nights ago. Now, in the daylight, he could see the garish paintings splashed haphazardly across the rippled metal. Bright slashes of blood dripped off oversize teeth and claws, massive snakes curled around buxom, silently screaming women, alligators ripped and tore at pith helmeted white explorers. The front gate had been wired back into place and locked. A small “Closed” sign was slung over the top.

“I can’t see shit,” Sturm said and goosed the pickup back up to seventy. A mile west of the zoo, they spotted a dirt road, nothing more than an old logging trail really, but Sturm shifted into four-wheel-drive without slowing down and they lurched and bounced through the brush along a low ridge.

“There’s a pair of binoculars in the glove box,” Sturm said. He took his foot off the gas, letting the pickup slowly roll to a stop on its own. “Don’t need a goddamn cloud of dust against the sun advertising us,” he explained.

Frank handed Sturm the binoculars and they climbed out. Sturm came around to the passenger side and settled his elbows on the softly ticking hood, forming a steady tripod as he peered into the binoculars.

Frank watched the zoo with his naked eyes, hands in his pockets, as the desert wind billowed the suit against his frame like hanging sheets in a hurricane. He couldn’t see a whole lot of detail. The huge compound, maybe fifteen or twenty acres, was spread out like a prickly fungus in the desert. Thin roads meandered through piles of scrap metal. They were too far away to even hear the animal cries. “See anything?” he finally broke down and asked.

Sturm took his time before answering. “Nothing moving. Lots of cages, though. Can’t tell if anything’s in ’em.”

Frank glanced back at the setting sun. He figured he had maybe a half-hour of daylight left. He grabbed one of the walkie-talkies and some beef jerky off the front seat. “Give me an hour.”

Sturm nodded. “I’ll be waiting.”

Frank eased himself down the shifting, sliding slope of shale. He heard the pickup door open and shut. Sturm’s dry voice floated down. “Hey, son.”

Frank looked back up at the short silhouette. Sturm said, “You get yourself into trouble, you best get yourself out of it, understand? Don’t look to me for help. I won’t be here.”

“Yeah.” Frank kept going down the slope.

* * * * *

He reached the chain link fence just as the sun sank below the mountains. The fence was bound tightly to heavy steel poles, sunk deep in the dirt and anchored in concrete. There were no gaps. Above him, the piss yellow lights flickered sporadically to life, and Frank hoped that they were light sensitive, and someone hadn’t turned them on. They provided enough light for Frank to follow the fence east to the far corner, then south.