The Devils Punchbowl

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.

There’s the swing set Kelly mentioned. It’s a standard A-frame set, like the one my parents bought at Western Auto in the 1960s, but no swings are attached to its crossbar—only 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 it’s meant to rotate so the arms can turn in a circle. But I can’t 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.

“It’s 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.”

“What’s 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.”

“It’s sort of like dog races—only with this deal, when the dog’s 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 Kelly’s hand on my arm.

“What is it?” I ask, feeling my heart kick. “Did you hear something?”

“A cat, I think. Listen.”

He’s 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 it’s 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. “It’s 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 bulldog’s 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 can’t 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. “Let’s put it back like we found it.”

As I wedge the bottom board back into place, a chilling sound reaches my ears. It’s a low, haunting howl, coming from somewhere deeper in the trees. It sounds like the crying of a soul that’s wandered lost for a thousand years.

“I

know

I don'’t want to see that,” I whisper. “Whatever it is. Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

“Wait,” says Kelly. “Danny’s talking to me.”

I’d forgotten that Kelly’s still wearing his earpiece.

“The VIP boat’s getting close to where we are,” he says.

“What do we do?”

“Let’s check out that noise, and by then we’ll know if they'’re going to put in here or not.”

With a silent groan I follow him toward the wavering howl.

“We’re 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. 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.”