Greg Iles - The Devils Punchbowl

Thirty yards farther on, the path terminates in a small clearing. In the middle of the clearing lies a shallow pit dug in the earth. It’s about eight feet square, and eighteen inches deep.

“That'’s where they do it,” says Kelly. “One place, anyway. In Afghanistan they fight them right in the street, but most places use a pit.”

Staring into the hole, I try to imagine two heavy-muscled pit bulls exploding out of the corners and smashing into each other, dueling for a death grip. But even standing in this spot, it’s difficult to believe that happens here. The howl comes again—lower in pitch, but much closer now.

“Over there,” Kelly says, pointing the beam toward the trees.

He trots across the ground, and I reluctantly follow. The first thing I see when I reach the trees is some sort of block and tackle hanging from a branch, the kind deer hunters use to gut animals. But as I try to look closer, the red light vanishes. Kelly has knelt to examine something at the base of the tree.

“Easy now,” he says, as though talking to a child. “Just take it easy. We’re not going to hurt you.”

Dread flows into me like an icy tide, but after a deep breath, I force myself to take a step to my right. Four feet in front of Kelly, at the base of a cottonwood tree, a pit bull terrier lies shivering on its belly. It’s a brindle, I think, but so much of its coat is covered with dried blood that it’s hard to be sure. The howling has stopped. Now all I hear is panting, accompanied by a strange whistling sound.

“What’s wrong with it?” I ask, wondering why the dog hasn’'t bolted in terror. “Can’t it move?”

“I don'’t think so,” says Kelly. “I think her back is broken.”

“How do you know it’s a her?”

“No balls. Just checked.”

“Can a dog break its back in a dogfight?”

“No way. Easy, girl, easy,” Kelly murmurs, sweeping his beam around the tree. The light stops at the trunk of the next tree. “That'’s what did it.”

Leaning against the next tree, a blue aluminum softball bat gleams dully in the red light. Like the dog, it’s covered with dried blood. Beside the bat, three car batteries stand on a small square of plywood. Kelly shakes his head and aims the beam back at the wounded dog. The terrier’s eyes look plaintive, almost human, but shock and exposure have obviously taken their toll. Both forelegs have deep, suppurating gashes at the shoulder.

Kelly edges forward, but I grab his arm. “That dog can still take your hand off.”

“Don’t worry, I know what I'm doing.”

As he moves closer to the dog, I ask, “What’s that whistling sound?”

He leans over the animal, training the beam on the top of its skull. Even with its back broken, the dog instinctively jerks its head away from Kelly’s arm.

“Christ,” Kelly says in a stunned voice. “They cracked her skull with the bat. When she breathes, the air goes through it. Kind of like a sucking chest wound, I guess. I can’t believe she’s still alive.”

As I stare in horror, Kelly takes out his camera and videotapes the wounds, then painstakingly videotapes everything in the clearing. As sick as it makes me, I can’t take my eyes off the suffering animal. Her plight is beyond understanding, like that of so many human victims I encountered in Houston. The sound of running footsteps makes me jump, then Kelly is at my side.

“What is it?” I ask. “Did the VIP boat land here?”

“No, it passed us. Goddamn it!”

“Maybe they

are

fighting dogs on the boat.”

“No. That cruise was some kind of con—a diversion. It’s like they knew we were coming. I think we’d better get out of here.”

He stuffs his camera into his pack and starts walking away.

“Wait,” I call. “What about her?”

He stops and looks back at me. “I told you. They can’t know we were here. We got nothing tonight, unless Sands himself owns the land we’re standing on. We’re going to have to do this

again.

”

“We can’t leave her like this. Can’t you…”

“What?”

“Shoot her?”

Kelly shakes his head. “I can’t be sure the wound wouldn'’t show, and I can’t get close enough to stick the gun in her mouth.”

“We can’t leave her like this,” I insist.

He sighs like a soldier being forced to consider the feelings of civilians. “You want to put her out of her misery?” He shines his flashlight back on the softball bat. “There you go.”

A wave of nausea rolls through me. “They already hit her with that,” I stammer, recoiling at the thought.

“They weren’t trying to help her. They were having a party. If you hit the cervical spine as hard as you can, death should be instantaneous.”

I look down at the dog, then back at Kelly.

“You wanted to come,” he says, shining the light in my eyes. “If you want to finish it, finish it.”

This is not like Kelly at all. Whenever we’ve worked together, he’s always been ready and willing to do whatever dirty work was

required. I’'ve never completely understood the dynamic between us, or what motivated him to go beyond what I consider the call of duty. He’s always operated by a private code, one I thought I understood. It’s as though together, we function as a complete man—a rational mind capable of enforcing its decisions with implacable force. But in the past, I realize now, Kelly’s willingness to kill has always been demonstrated while he was protecting me or my family. This situation falls outside those parameters. In fact, letting the dog die in agony is probably the safer choice, from that perspective. But I can see that Kelly feels for the animal. Is he testing me? Is the iron fist performing a gut check on the mind that wields it? Or is he trying to find out whether I'’ll let my emotions override my reason? Knowing there’s no sure answer to any of these questions, I walk to the tree and lift the bat, certain that the last person who did so was the one who battered the helpless dog into what huddles at my feet now.

“Wait,” says Kelly.

I stand over the shivering dog, waiting to feel the bat taken from my hands.

“Danny thinks he’s got something. Uh-huh…Right…How far?” He checks his watch, then says, “Shit, we can do that. We’ll come in the boats…. No, no, if you drop us in close enough, they’ll hear the chopper. Stay well clear. If they leave before we get there, try to get a license plate, but don'’t let them know you’re there. I'’ll radio our coordinates en route…. Right. Out.”

“What’s going on?” I ask.

“Danny saw something suspicious earlier on the FLIR, down past where the VIP boat turned around. He went back and checked it out. It’s a big metal building, and it’s throwing off heat. There’s a couple of SUVs out front with men sitting behind the wheel like drivers waiting for people.”

“What do you think it is?”

“Tonight’s dogfight. I think they tried to pull a fast one on us. They knew we might be following the boat, so they handled transport a different way.”

“Where are they?”

“An island. About five miles downriver.”

“Five miles?”

“Yeah. If we dig in, we can make it in twenty or twenty-five minutes.”

“Won’t the fight be over by then?”

“Not necessarily. A single dogfight can go two hours or more. But we don'’t have time to waste. Put the bat back, and let’s move.”

“Damn it, Kelly, just shoot the dog. We can throw her in the river. They’ll never know.”

“Bullshit. Dogs aren'’t like cats to these people. They were punishing this dog, probably for losing a fight. They know she can’t move, and when they come back, they’ll expect to find her here, dead. Come on.”

Kelly takes two backward steps, but he doesn’'t turn away. I feel the weight of his gaze upon me. There’s a pregnant tension between us, but I won'’t kill a helpless creature because a man is testing me. Stepping over the dog’s rump with my left foot, I brace my foot against a tree root, then grip the bat’s taped handle with both hands and raise it over my right shoulder. The terrier lifts her head, trying to look back at me, but before her eyes find mine I swing the bat with all my strength, aiming for the neck, where the spine meets the skull. In the adrenaline-flushed second that the bat completes its arc, instinct tells me to shut my eyes, but I keep them open, knowing that to look away could result in more torture.