Perri O'Shaughnessy - Presumption Of Death

Outside the tent were few signs of activity-a stump with an ax stuck in it alongside a fresh stack of kindling, and a dead geranium in a black plastic container. The canvas door was lashed down. A tin bowl half full of water sat under the nearest tree, with a long chain wrapped around it once, the other end lying on the ground.

No sign of a car. No pit bull, no sign of Coyote. Nina expelled a breath she hadn’t realized she had been holding. Paul put Hitchcock on a leash. They picked their way to the tree where Paul had noticed the boy and Nina saw, where three stout branches intersected, Nate, huddling on a pile of branches and rags. He had been watching them for some time.

“Hello.”

“Hello, Nate.”

“Did you come to get me? I made a call. Mother taught me to call.”

“Would you like to come down and talk to us?” Paul said.

“I’m not allowed. Loud and louder until you want to scream like I scream. Ice cream. Never get any anymore. More.”

“I brought you a Coke,” Nina said, holding up one of the cans they had brought along. “It’s cold too. But I can’t get up there.”

“But I can’t come down. So, so, I need to sew my pants, they’re ripped.” But he made some movements, as though he were trying.

Paul bent down, examining the tree. “Shit,” he said. “Look here.” In the back, screwed into the tree, was a ring with a chain welded to it. The chain led upward.

Nina looked, following the chain up into the tree, where it ended at Nate’s nest. Down in the ground at the foot of the tree, she spotted signs of disturbance, signs of a struggle. “That’s it,” she said. “He’s coming with us.”

Paul drew her aside. “Listen,” he said in a low voice. “I’m not too up on schizophrenics, or whatever the current parlance is, but I have a feeling nobody is making sure this kid takes his meds. He’s going to be unpredictable. We should call the sheriff.”

“We’ll take him to the sheriff. This is child abuse. I won’t stand for it another minute! Look, let’s get him out of here before Coyote gets back. Let’s avoid an incident. Anything could happen. Please, Paul.”

Paul said, “Just stick him in the back seat? I don’t want him behind me.”

“In the front seat.”

“Where he could grab the wheel?”

“Okay,” Nina said. “I’ll drive and you two sit in back where you can keep an eye on him.”

“That ought to be a pleasant journey.” But he took hold of the ring and tried to pull it out. “I get the feeling Coyote did not want Nate to be able to take this thing on and off easily. Can you talk him down so I can look at the other end?”

Nina moved out so she could see Nate better, and said, “Can we take you for an ice cream, Nate? Will you come down so my friend can take off the chain?”

“He’ll be mad, mad, mad. Oh, he’ll be mad.”

“We’ll keep you safe.”

“Can I tell him you made me?”

“Sure you can.” The boy seemed to shake his nest and then a skinny leg appeared and positioned itself on a branch. He hauled himself out of the pile. His leg bore a heavy shackle that looked a lot like the one Wish had been wearing in court that morning. The rest of the chain swung down suddenly, clanking, and pulled him off-balance, but he managed to hang on. He slid down and his feet came close enough to Paul for Paul to grab him. In a moment he was on the ground.

“Here I am. How do you do.”

Nina held out a hand to steady him while Paul knelt down to examine the shackle.

Nate was skinny and short, but the beginnings of adolescent stubble and the Adam’s apple confirmed to Nina that he was just past puberty, about thirteen, as the cowboys at Alma’s had said. He looked Native American. He still wore the dirty flannel shirt with his narrow chest exposed in front, his jeans were in shreds, and his feet were bare. He smelled bad. The chain gave him about ten feet to wander around the base of the tree.

Paul hurried back to the Bronco for Nina’s tool kit, while Nate and Nina waited. Nate seemed nonchalant, as though he had placed his fate totally in their hands. He looked around, surveying everything, without anxiety, with an expression of wonder and pleasure and something else, a light in his eyes that made Nina uncomfortable. He drank down the soft drink thirstily and Nina noticed that he was missing some teeth. Hitchcock sniffed him and Nate backed away. “Go lie down,” Nina told Hitchcock.

Paul came back and knelt with his toolbox by the shackles. Pulling on leather gloves, he took a small hacksaw and began sawing.

Hitchcock’s ears pricked up and his head swiveled toward the Bronco. Nina thought she heard something and looked anxiously down the dirt road that came off Arroyo Seco.

A car.

“Uh-oh,” Nate said.

“Hurry!” Nina said.

“I hear it.”

Nate said, “Ow!” Just as Coyote’s tan van pulled into the clearing, the shackle fell away. The pit bull in the front seat of the van was already growling, its bullet head extended out the car window.

The van’s motor died. Coyote sat inside, about a hundred feet away, not moving. Afternoon light behind him made his face indistinct. Paul straightened up. He picked up Hitchcock’s leash and handed it to Nina, saying, “Hold on to him. Nate, you stay with Nina.”

He walked slowly toward the van, his boots kicking up miniature dust storms behind. The sun beat down hard in the clearing, making a minidesert out of the setting.

Nina, leash wrapped around her hand, stood beside the boy, fighting off her fear for Paul.

The pit bull leapt out of the half-open window and came at Paul. At the same time, Hitchcock leapt forward, teeth bared. She could have held him-could have stopped him-but she let him go, to fight.

The pit bull, seeing Hitchcock, veered behind Paul and the two dogs met in a snarling, snapping fury, rolling over and over in the dirt. Paul backed away and pulled out his gun, but he couldn’t do anything with it. The two dogs made one whirling blur. Nate pressed against Nina, whimpering. She pulled him behind the tree.

Coyote sat in his van, unmoving. Paul picked up a piece of cut firewood from the woodpile and ran up to the dogs, who snapped and bit, completely beyond command. Looking for his chance, Paul held the piece of wood up and hit the pit bull on its back. It let out a shrieking sound, but it had its jaws embedded in Hitchcock’s neck now and would not let go. Paul hit it again.

Out of the van’s window a rifle barrel appeared, growing longer as it extended out. “Paul!” she screamed. Concentrating on the maddened dogs, he didn’t hear her. She kept her eyes on the rifle, now pointed directly at Paul-what could she do? “Paul!”

Paul hit the pit bull on the skull. Its jaws opened slowly. It let go of Hitchcock, rolled over, and lay still. The rifle swiveled, following Paul’s movements. Again, she screamed. This time he heard her. With a movement so fast she barely registered it, he threw himself facedown to the ground, then began crawling rapidly into the brush.

But Coyote didn’t shoot. Suddenly, the ruckus quieted, the bugs and animals seemed subdued, the air was still. Paul, lying in some manzanita, had his gun aimed toward the van. The rifle barrel caught a glint of sun. The wind died. Hitchcock crouched, whining, near the body of the pit bull. The picture froze. She would never forget it-the rank smell of the boy clutching her, Paul’s expression, hard and terrible, the blinding sun-

Small sounds started up. Hitchcock, still whining, hurt. Her own harsh breathing. Meanwhile, the rifle never moved, frozen in space. She couldn’t see the man behind it, just the outline of his head in a cowboy hat.

The roar of the engine caught her by surprise as the van started up. The rifle disappeared and the van bucked backward and turned. Wrapped in a robe of dust, it accelerated out of the clearing.