Greg Iles - The Devils Punchbowl
Then I do. The smell of death is in the airthick and powerful enough to smother the green scent I savored only moments ago. The odor isnt alien; its what you smell when youre forced to drive slowly past an armadillo thats been dead for two days.
This place feels deserted, I whisper.
Kelly lowers the scope, then raises his neck and turns his head like a meerkat moving in slow motion. No, theres something here. Something alive.
Deer?
Lets find out.
I have no desire to walk any closer to whatever is producing that reek. But when Kelly creeps forward, I realize I have even less desire to stand here by myself.
As I follow him, the stench of death grows overpowering. I can barely suppress my gag reflex. Beneath the putrid smell of decay is a pungent, ammoniac funk that almost burns the nostrils. Lifting the
crook of my left arm to my face, I bury my nose in my jacket sleeve and survey what little I can see by moonlight.
Theres the swing set Kelly mentioned. Its a standard A-frame set, like the one my parents bought at Western Auto in the 1960s, but no swings are attached to its crossbaronly some heavy-gauge springs and short links of chain. The chains end in hooks, while large carabiners dangle from the springs. Fifteen yards to my right is some sort of contraption that looks like a piece of antique playground equipment. It has two metal arms jutting from a central pillar that looks as though its meant to rotate so the arms can turn in a circle. But I cant quite solve the puzzle of its function. One of the arms ends in a hook, and a short length of chain dangles from the second, a few feet behind that one.
What is this place? I whisper.
Its for training, Kelly murmurs, clicking on a flashlight with a red filter on its lens. They hang things the dogs want from the hooks and springs. Pit bulls will leap up and bite and hang there for hours. They do it to strengthen the dogs jaws.
Whats that thing that looks like a homemade merry-go-round?
You don't want to know.
I do.
Kelly points his red beam at the strange machine and walks over to it. See this front arm? He points to the one that ends in a hook. They hang a pet caddy from this hook with a kitten or something else inside it. Then they chain the dog to this arm back here. The cat goes crazy from terror, of course, and the dog chases it, pushing against the resistance in the machine.
Jesus.
Its sort of like dog racesonly with this deal, when the dogs through running, they let him kill the cat. Sometimes they don't even use a pet caddy. They just hang the bait animal from the hook. I've seen that in Kabul. I think they call this thing a jenny, or something like that.
Suddenly the red beam vanishes, and I feel Kellys hand on my arm.
What is it? I ask, feeling my heart kick. Did you hear something?
A cat, I think. Listen.
Hes right. Beneath the whine of insects, I hear a tiny feline mewling, like the kind you hear behind Dumpsters at fast-food restaurants.
I think its coming from the shed, Kelly says. Come on.
I follow reluctantly, still thinking about the jenny.
Kelly quickly covers the distance to the shed, but as I follow, my right foot bangs into a bucket on the ground, sending a hollow clang through the trees. Before the sound dies, a cat screams inside the shed. Then something scuffles against the wall boards.
Very smooth, Kelly says, trying the door handle. Its locked.
I saw a silencer on your pistol. Just shoot it off.
No. He runs his hand down the faces of the weathered boards. Slipping his fingertips into a crack between two boards at shoulder level, he yanks a board right off the shed, then jumps back as though he expects a wildcat to leap out of the dark opening. When nothing emerges but the stench of old urine, he switches on his flashlight and shines it into the shed.
This is fucked-up, he says.
I can smell it. I don't need to look.
You said you needed to be able to testify about what we found, right? Well, here it is.
I peer through the hole long enough to see half a dozen malnourished, extremely dehydrated cats. Three or four others appear to be dead. Half-buried piles of excrement litter the dirt floor. My horror deepens when I realize that some of the cats are wearing collars. Mercifully, Kelly shines his light into the corner of the shed away from the animals, onto some short metal bars leaning in the corner.
What are those? I ask.
Break sticks. Bars to pry a bulldogs jaws loose from something.
Kelly takes out his camera and begins videotaping the contents of the shed.
We've got to let them go, I say.
Kelly makes a humming sound I cant interpret, but it sounds negative. We don't want anybody to know we were here. I'm going to put that board back in place.
I look back at him for a few seconds, then kneel and yank one end
of the bottom-most board away from the wall. While Kelly stares with a curious look on his face, two cats shoot through the opening and race away into the darkness.
Put the other board back up, I tell him. They don't know how many cats were in here.
There go the rest, says Kelly, pointing at several dark shapes escaping cautiously through the opening. The last cat through seems barely able to keep its feet.
Okay, Gandhi, says Kelly, hammering the top board back on with his hand. Lets put it back like we found it.
As I wedge the bottom board back into place, a chilling sound reaches my ears. Its a low, haunting howl, coming from somewhere deeper in the trees. It sounds like the crying of a soul thats wandered lost for a thousand years.
I
know
I don't want to see that, I whisper. Whatever it is. Lets get the fuck out of here.
Wait, says Kelly. Dannys talking to me.
Id forgotten that Kellys still wearing his earpiece.
The VIP boats getting close to where we are, he says.
What do we do?
Lets check out that noise, and by then well know if they're going to put in here or not.
With a silent groan I follow him toward the wavering howl.
Were on a path, he says, shining the red beam along a sandy track worn through the grass. I bet this ends where they fight the dogs.
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. Its 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, its difficult to believe that happens here. The howl comes againlower 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. Were 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. Its a brindle, I think, but so much of its coat is covered with dried blood that its hard to be sure. The howling has stopped. Now all I hear is panting, accompanied by a strange whistling sound.
Whats wrong with it? I ask, wondering why the dog hasn't bolted in terror. Cant it move?
I don't think so, says Kelly. I think her back is broken.
How do you know its 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, its 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 terriers 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.
Dont worry, I know what I'm doing.
As he moves closer to the dog, I ask, Whats 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 Kellys 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 cant believe shes 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 cant 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 cona diversion. Its like they knew we were coming. I think wed 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 cant know we were here. We got nothing tonight, unless Sands himself owns the land were standing on. Were going to have to do this
again.
We cant leave her like this. Cant you
What?
Shoot her?
Kelly shakes his head. I cant be sure the wound wouldn't show, and I cant get close enough to stick the gun in her mouth.
We cant 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 werent 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 weve worked together, hes 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. Hes always operated by a private code, one I thought I understood. Its as though together, we function as a complete mana rational mind capable of enforcing its decisions with implacable force. But in the past, I realize now, Kellys 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 theres 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 hes got something. Uh-huh Right How far? He checks his watch, then says, Shit, we can do that. Well come in the boats . No, no, if you drop us in close enough, theyll 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 youre there. I'll radio our coordinates en route . Right. Out.
Whats 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. Its a big metal building, and its throwing off heat. Theres a couple of SUVs out front with men sitting behind the wheel like drivers waiting for people.
What do you think it is?
Tonights 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.
Wont 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 lets move.
Damn it, Kelly, just shoot the dog. We can throw her in the river. Theyll never know.
Bullshit. Dogs aren't like cats to these people. They were punishing this dog, probably for losing a fight. They know she cant move, and when they come back, theyll 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. Theres a pregnant tension between us, but I won't kill a helpless creature because a man is testing me. Stepping over the dogs rump with my left foot, I brace my foot against a tree root, then grip the bats 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.
The bat doesn't ring on impact, but it jolts my arms and rattles my spine down to my pelvis as a wet crack like a boy stomping on a sodden limb echoes through the trees. The awful whistling has stopped. The dog lies motionless. I stumble back to the other tree, lean the bat against it, then march past Kelly toward the river.
