Archer Mayor - The Ragman's memory

“Yeah-no problem.”

But the coldness remained, along with the feeling that with my visit to Lunenburg, I’d set something dark, sad, and irreversible into motion.

The predominant noise in the squad room next morning was the rustling of hastily turned newspaper pages. Everyone, it seemed, was sitting in some corner, silently scanning one column inch after another, utterly focused, I knew, on finding the one thing that wasn’t there-the name of Stan Katz’s source.

Sammie was the first to broach the subject, following me into my glass-walled cubicle and dropping the paper on the desk. “You see this?”

I removed my coat and hung it behind the door. “Yup-Katz called me at home this morning and warned me about it.”

“Did he name his source?”

I laughed. “Right. Who’s your candidate?”

“Beats me. The article implies there was more than one.”

“I wonder how NeverTom’s taking it?” I wondered aloud, amused at Katz’s oblique dig at the selectman. “Anything new on Ned Fallows?”

“No. The state police put a BOL out on him last night, but so far-”

Willy Kunkle appeared at the door. “Got something right up your alley,” he interrupted, making Sammie purse her lips in irritation. “Some guy on Deacon Place just called, said his dog showed up this morning with a frozen coon carcass in his mouth-all cut up and weird-looking. Animal Control is on the way already. The guy said he normally wouldn’t have called, except that the ‘weird’ part reminded him of rabies, and the cuts were done with a knife. He’s a surgeon, so I guess he would know.”

News that somebody had carved up a rabid animal revived the impatience I’d been feeling at Hillstrom’s silence about how Milo might have caught the disease. I retrieved my coat and headed back out the door with Kunkle, telling Sammie, “We’ll talk when I get back.”

It was an extraordinary morning, as bright as a diamond, the snow white and reflective and untrammeled as a newfound beach. The sun on the horizon was the image of an acetylene torch-blazing, blinding, and yet virtually without heat. The air felt cold enough to freeze your eyes open.

We took my car and headed north along the Putney Road. Deacon Place is attached to a tiny horseshoe-shaped enclave marking the northernmost reaches of the Putney Road’s high-income district, just shy of the short bridge marking the beginning of the “miracle mile” section of the road.

This overlooked neighborhood affords one of the most scenic, peaceful, and expensive views over the West River floodplain, known locally as “the meadows.” As we pulled into Vermont Avenue-the southern leg of the horseshoe-I was struck once again at how some areas, regardless of the bustle all around them, manage to appear as sylvan and pristine as a country village.

We didn’t talk during the short trip. Willy wasn’t inclined that way generally, and I was too busy thinking to bother. The discovery of a dissected, rabid animal, though interesting enough, wasn’t the only reason I was making the drive out here. As Willy already knew, the location of this find was as relevant as the animal itself-Tom and Ben Chambers lived on Eaton Avenue, in the same tiny neighborhood.

Animal Control’s small dark-blue pickup truck, its rear bed fitted out with a cluster of closed cages, was parked opposite the house we were looking for. I pulled up behind it just as Amy Siddons, the control officer, appeared at the house’s back door. She gestured to us to follow her inside.

The doctor in question was Michael Brook, a large, bearded, one-legged orthopedic surgeon at Brattleboro Memorial. A skilled physician with an encyclopedic knowledge and a near-compulsive curiosity, he was also a good friend who’d seen me through some bad times in the past. That notwithstanding, my encounters with him had always occurred at the hospital or in his office. I’d never asked or known where he lived and was startled and pleased to see him now. He greeted us in the kitchen, piled our coats onto a table, and immediately ushered us into a spacious, well-lit pantry, complete with an elegant, highly polished, copper-top counter. There, laid out beside a row of cut crystal glasses and an assortment of expensive liquor bottles, were the sliced-up remains of a frozen raccoon carcass, spreadeagled on its back. I leapt to the conclusion that Mrs. Brook was out of town.

“I knew right off it was rabid,” he began, slipping on a pair of latex gloves. “Even frozen, you can see the thick mucus typical of hydrophobia slathered on the coat. And those porcupine quills around the nose are a classic sign of a wild animal being too disoriented to take the most basic precautions. Also, the coat is patchy and unkempt. That’s not indicative of rabies by itself, but taken in context, it’s a pretty good guess. ’Course, only a brain analysis can prove any of it.”

Amy Siddons, hanging back by the door, said, “Dr. Brook, I better get going. Your dog should get a rabies booster, and you should watch it for any unusual behavior over the next forty-five days, but that’s about all that needs to be done.” She looked at me and added, “I’ll leave a special container in the kitchen for that.”

Brook turned a dazzling smile on her. “Wonderful, wonderful. Thank you very much.” He waited until she’d left the house before adding, “I don’t think she likes this aspect of the animal kingdom much.”

“Where did your dog find it?” Willy asked, who seemed little more interested than Amy.

“Beats me,” Brook answered. He was bent over the small body, poking and prodding with his rubber-tipped fingers. “The thing is, Joe, you can see what’s been done to this creature. It’s incredible-like some sort of weird science experiment. Made me think of all that Satanist stuff the paper was screaming about a while ago.”

He pointed to the head. “This hasn’t just been hacked up. Parts have been surgically removed-not with any skill, incidentally-but with distinct purpose. Look here-see? The tongue’s been cut out, the insides of the cheeks scraped, and the palate’s been split open to access the brain, which looks like it’s been scooped out. It’s almost as if someone was scavenging for a witch’s brew-you know, eye of newt, wing of bat? Really strange.”

I had no doubts he was right and was all but sure I knew what the recipe was for-and who had been the recipient. “Tell us how you got it, Mike.”

Brook straightened and peeled off his gloves, dropping them on the carcass. “Cricket brought it in,” he said, nodding toward the dog. “I let him out first thing every morning. By the time I’ve shaved, showered, and fixed breakfast, he’s usually back at the door, begging to be let in, especially this time of year. Only today, he had that in his mouth. Given that it’s frozen, I doubt it’s still contaminated, but I thought you’d be interested by the carving.”

“I am,” I answered. “Mind if we walk around the property a little?”

He waved his hand toward the door. “Be my guest. I still have a few things to do before I head for the office. You all set on your own?”

“Does the dog roam the whole neighborhood?” Willy asked as we were putting on our coats.

“One end of Eaton to the other, but generally not beyond that. He’s pretty territorial.”

We thanked him and stepped outside.

“Lucky we got that new snow,” Willy said, pointing with his chin toward the narrow track cut into the snow bank-the width of a mid-sized dog.

We followed Cricket’s tour of the neighborhood, meandering, inquisitive, occasionally indecisive. At points, I could visualize him standing stock-still, his nose to the breeze, waiting for inspiration. Willy and I cut across property lines, through hedges, and traveled in circles, hoping the tracks would take us north, toward the Chambers house.