I’m not sure, due to the ambient odors, but I think what I’m smelling in there is ganja.
Maybe this is where the local grannies get it.
I lower myself, sneaker sole catching on the rim of the tin bucket. Get my balance. Turn toward the door I came in, and the dog is there, waiting. I shine my light at it. It’s like one of those bad flash photos, where the object lit up in front doesn’t look real.
“Okay, dog,” I say. “You don’t bite me, I won’t hit you with my stick. How’s that sound?”
I inch my way forward: flashlight in one hand, stick in the other.
When I reach the door, the dog shakes itself and trots away.
Back inside, American dude is still banging his drums. The Chinese guy’s picked up one of the guitars and strums at it like he’s jerking off. The girl sits back in one of the folding chairs smoking a cigarette.
“Hey, Russell,” I say. “So when’s David getting here?”
Russell frowns. He’s sitting in a chair next to the girl, hunched over like a letter C.
“Soon, like I told you.”
“See, thing is, I can’t really hang out here much longer. I got stuff to do.”
Russell uncoils and fishes a phone from his jacket pocket. Stares at it for a moment.
“I’m not getting a good signal here,” he says. “I’ll go outside and call him.”
He gets up. Hobbles to the front door.
I wait. Sip my beer. Feel my heart pound. Watch American dude and Chinese guy whaling away on the guitar and drums. I think they’re trying to play “Smells Like Teen Spirit,” but it’s hard to tell.
After a few minutes of this, I stand up, and smile at the Chinese girl. “Be right back.”
“Where are you going?”
The way she says it, a little flat, not smiling, if my nerves weren’t already pinging all over the place, they’re ratcheted up another couple of notches now.
I pat my stomach. “Wo you yidianr bushufu.”
Funny phrase in Mandarin. You say it when you’re feeling sick, but it literally means, “I’m a little uncomfortable.”
Yeah, I’m definitely not comfortable.
I go out the back again, toward the outhouse.
I don’t want to use my flashlight. There’s some ambient light, from the farmhouse, from the moon, but the paths are uneven, so I use my stick to feel my way.
I don’t see Russell. Don’t hear him. But based on how he scrammed outside when he checked the time, I don’t like it.
And that’s when I hear a car motor.
The sound echoes off the hills, and I can’t tell for sure where it’s coming from, but I figure it’s probably on the road I took to get here. I freeze a moment and listen, see if it recedes and fades and goes on down the road, but it doesn’t. The car idles for a minute. Then it’s back in gear.
Heading up the path to the farmhouse.
I hesitate. Maybe it’s Jason, at long last.
But maybe it’s not.
Hide.
Not in the outhouse. I’ve done that, but not with a couple kilos of pot. I look around, try to see what the landscape is, where I can go, and I can’t, really. That low, flat stretch to my right, that’s probably an overgrown field, not a good choice.
Past the outhouse, that dark mass, that’s the hillside.
I think if I can get up there, up high, maybe I can see who’s coming.
If I can get there in time.
I jog as best I can, pain shooting up my leg with every step, past the outhouse, past another shed, and the car’s getting louder, and I can see the headlight beams now, and I scramble past a woodpile, into the shadow of a large tree, and from there I head up the hill, stumbling on rocks and ruts of a trail that’s hardly even there, that disappears into weeds and grass.
I keep going, and it’s steep enough so I’m grabbing onto roots and bushes with my hands, and finally I get to another tree and I stop, latch onto the tree trunk, hug the rough bark.
I turn and look down the hill. There are two cars pulling up to the farmhouse. The light from the headlights of the second illuminates the first.
White. Blue band on the side. Blue-and-red light bar on top.
Oh, fuck. Police.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
I CAN SEE A couple of cops drag the Chinese guy and the American guy out of the farmhouse, into the glare of the car headlights, their hands cuffed behind their backs. The cops push their heads down and shove them into the backseat of the cruiser. Then the Chinese girl. They put her in the other car. I can’t tell if her hands are cuffed or not.
No Russell.
That asshole. I knew he was up to something.
Two more squad cars pull up. Four more cops. Eight of them altogether. Two of the new ones go into the farmhouse. The other two start checking out the grounds, LED flashlights casting glowing bluish beams. Looking for evidence, maybe.
Or looking for me.
I want to run, but I’m not good at that, and I’m scared that if I try to head farther up the hill, they’ll see me, they’ll hear me. So I stay where I am.
I don’t know how long I sit there clutching the tree trunk. The cars with the Chinese and American guys and the Chinese girl leave. The cops come out of the farmhouse, carrying stuff in bags. I don’t know what. The cops with the flashlights check out one of the sheds and then the outhouse. I hear one of them shout.
That’s when I hear a low-pitched growl, then frantic barking. The yellow dog.
I can see the shadow of the dog standing near the outhouse. See one of the cops reach down to his hip. Lift his arm up.
The gunshot is so loud. It echoes off the hills. The dog yelps; it seems to jump straight in the air. I press my cheek into the tree trunk. I don’t want to look anymore.
Shouts and laughter from the cops.
Then there’s a rustling noise. Getting louder.
I open my eyes. I can’t exactly see it, but there’s a dark shape, and it’s heading in my direction.
The fucking dog.
Flashlight beams pour light on the hill.
I clutch the tree trunk. Shrink into myself. Oh, shit.
I can hear the dog’s panting breaths now. I turn my head and see it standing there, head lowered, hackles raised, a low growl in its throat.
I stare at it.
Down the hill I hear another shouted sentence from one of the cops. The flashlight beams sweep in an arc, hit the tree. Then turn back toward the outhouse and the farm.
The dog stands there a moment longer. Then slowly settles onto its haunches.
I don’t move.
WE SIT THERE A long time.
I risk a peek down the hill now and again. See the cops going in and out of the main building and the outhouse. Sometimes carrying things. Taking breaks, leaning against the squad cars and smoking cigarettes. My leg throbs, but I’m too scared to move it. The dog sits like a sphinx, watching me.
Now my leg’s getting numb. Just hold on, I tell myself. Hold on until they leave.
Finally I hear a car start. Tires on dirt and gravel. The other car’s still there. The two cops hang out. Smoke more cigarettes. Why the fuck don’t they leave?
I can’t take it anymore. I’ve got to move.
I stare at the dog. I clutch my calf with both hands-my leg’s so numb it feels like wood. Stretch my leg out in front of me. It’s cold, and then it’s like somebody hits me with a stun gun. I bite my lip, swallow the moan in the back of my throat, nerves firing like popcorn. Breathe, I tell myself. Breathe.
When I open my eyes again, the dog hasn’t moved. Neither have the cops.
It gets cold. At some point I curl up on my side, turn up the collar of my jacket, tuck my hands into my armpits. I can’t stop shivering. I think, Fucking catch me already. Just take me someplace warm.
I hear rustling. Panting. A warm body presses up against my belly and chest. The dog.
Eventually I doze, the dog’s head tucked under my chin.
I don’t exactly wake up. I never really sleep. But there’s warmth on my face and light on my eyes, so I open them.