James Smith - The Flock

Ron sighed, ran his hands through his sweat-damp hair. "Yeah. I know, I know. But there's the way it happens. Each owner tells me the same story. Place is real quiet. Happens in the late afternoons, while the sun is still up. Not night, yet. The dogs have never barked or shown alarm, and then…poof…they're gone. No tracks. No blood. Nothing."

Mary shrugged. "Hey. Look. I could use the money, hunting for a big snake. Catching it. But this doesn't look like a snake."

"What then?" Ron was folding his Berg Brothers map, carefully bending it the right way.

"Well, hell. I think somebody's taking them."

The paper ruffled in the still air. Ron stopped. "What?"

"Somebody's taking them. Stealing them. Dognaping, they call it."

"Well, I thought of that." He resumed folding the map. "I thought of it, too. But I don't think that's what it is. I'd think of them running away before dognaping would occur to me."

Mary reached out and took the map from Ron. "Give me that thing. You got the names of the folk with missing critters?"

"Yeah, sure," he said, reaching into his shirt pocket for the small notebook he carried there. "Got 'em all right here." Ron began to tear the names and addresses out of the spiral-ringed book. "I've got them at home, and on some paperwork in the glove compartment. You keep these."

Mary closed her fist around the three little squares of paper, Ron's black ink scribblings showing boldly. "Let's talk to some of these people. See what we can figure out. Hell. Maybe there's more than one snake. Maybe there are two."

"Or three," Ron added.

The two of them saw a flash of a shadow in the trees and looked up to see an osprey glide past at treetop level.

"You know," Mary muttered. "There could be a freaking army of giant snakes in that wilderness." She indicated the green forest beyond them with a wave of her muscular right arm. "There's no telling what's in there."

"No telling," Ron agreed.

"Good idea to take your truck."

"Huh? Why is that?" Ron looked over at Mary, who was sitting low in the seat, peering at the corner of the mirror on the passenger side of the truck.

"Well, if I had been driving instead of admiring the neighborhood, I think I might have missed the fact that we're being tailed."

Ron glanced in his rearview mirror. "Tailed? Who the hell…" He slowed down a bit, almost to a crawl to get a look at the car that was about a block behind them.

"Recognize it? It's a 1999 Buick Grand Regal. Royal blue metal flake paint, with a V-8, loaded. Rental, I'd say. Know who it might be?"

Riggs crossed the next intersection and continued to steal an occasional glance back at the car. The windows were tinted and he couldn't make out the driver. "No. I've never seen it. If it's a rental, it could be anyone. How do you know it's following us, anyway?"

"Believe me. He's following us. Not a very good tail, if you ask me. I've been followed by some guys who were good at it."

"You were?"

"Yeah. Once, back when I was still married, my husband thought I was steppin' out on him and he hired a private detective to follow me. I only found out when he felt guilty about it and told me. He finally coughed up the file he'd built. Pictures and everything. Just added fuel to my desire to divorce him."

"You never told me about that," Ron said, a squint in his eyes that betrayed his surprise.

"Well, as you should recall, you didn't like for me to mention my short-lived marriage when we were dating. It made you jealous."

Ron could think of nothing to say to that.

"Anyway," Mary continued. "I never even knew he was there. That guy was good. This guy," Mary pointed back with her thumb, "ain't worth a darn at it."

"Well, we're going to be pulling over in about five seconds to talk to Mr. and Mrs. Brill who owned that Airedale. If the guy is following us, he'll have to either stop or pass us. Maybe we'll see who it is." Ron squinted, rubbed the sweat off of his brow. "I'll bet it's one of those Salutations security officers."

"I dunno," Mary said. "Why would they be tailing us? Who else wants to know about us?" Mary wiped at her forehead, too. "And tell me something else, Mr. Fish and Wildlife."

"Yeah? What?"

"Why the hell did they give you a truck with no air-conditioning?"

Before he could answer they had arrived at their destination. He pulled the pickup into the driveway of the Brill residence. The home, a big five-bedroom brick ranch, was built on the highest point of land in the neighborhood. It stood on a rise a full ten feet or so above most of the other homes. In terrain as flat as that around Salutations, the small rise looked impressive. Ron was sure the retired couple had paid a premium for the lot.

"Nice house," Mary said as they climbed out of the truck.

"They're all nice," Ron replied.

Both turned to see if the Buick was still following. In fact, it had pulled onto the shoulder of the street half a block away. They still could not see into the car, which sat there, its motor running. "Yep. That guy sucks for someone trying to keep an eye on us," Mary commented.

"To heck with him. Let's get down to business." Ron started up the drive and headed for the door, Mary right behind him. But before they could get to the front stoop, the door opened and out stepped Mr. Brill.

"Hello, son," Brill said, extending his hand. Brill was a retired executive for Exxon. He and his wife had wanted to retire to Florida and had chosen Salutations as the place. They hadn't counted on something eating their dogs, and the couple was pretty upset about it. Brill's pale features were prone to redden either in the sun or whenever he was angry. Just then, the great bush of white eyebrow that made a single line across his forehead accentuated his emotion-ruddied skin.

Ron took Brill's hand and indicated Mary who had come up beside him. "This is Mary Niccols, Mr. Brill. She's an expert on capturing problem animals, and I thought you might want to talk to her and let her take a look around. She has quite a bit more experience in these matters than I do."

Brill grasped Mary's hand, winced at the quick pressure of the gator trapper, and reclaimed his fingers. "Hello, Ms. Niccols. You're more than welcome to look around, if you think it'll help you figure out what's happened. But first, I want to show you two something."

"What is that, Mr. Brill?"

Brill had a finger to his lips. "Shh," he admonished. "Keep it down. I'll show you, but I don't want my wife to see. She was really attached to Sarah. That was our Airedale," he added. "I haven't told her about it, and was really happy when you called this morning. Don't know how long something like this would keep before I'd have to throw it in the freezer, and I sure didn't want to do that."

"What are you talking about?"

Brill had started around the house. Riggs and Niccols were following him through a covered breezeway that connected his garage to his house, and through which one could access his large back yard. Beyond the yard was the forest against which Salutations was waiting to encroach; sixty species of trees waited just beyond Brill's yard, waiting to be left alone, or to be felled.

In the back yard Brill led them over to a very nice brick building almost as large as Mary's own house. It was merely a workroom and storage structure for the retired executive. Both of the wage slaves were growing more impressed by the expression of wealth around them. "I put it back here," Brill told them as he got out his keys and unlocked the door. "I have a little refrigerator in here, where I keep drinks when I'm working here in the shed." They went in, greeted by a rush of cool air.

"Some shed," Mary muttered. The room was large: fourteen feet on a side, a neat one fourth of the building. The trapper wondered what was in the other rooms. This one was full of woodworking equipment. Fine stuff, she noted. Strictly top-of-the-line.