Dead Dogs and Englishmen (25 page)

We sat in the
morning room. Sun, streaming in the leaded glass windows, was dimmed and diffused because the windows were
dirty. The dirt filtered the sunlight and made the view from the window hazy: Pointillist trees and Impressionist sky. I would have loved the light, and the pseudo-art on every wall. I would have loved the fragile tea cup in my hand; the chance to be in this
Washington Square
setting; to bring the cup to my lips and sip and then smile and demur and tuck my long skirt back around my legs—crossed at the ankles, the toes of my dainty shoes sticking out, only hinting that I really had legs under there.

I didn't love any of it. I'd called Dolly when I arrived but she was gone. I told Lucky where I was and left the number. “In case you need me,” I said as loud as I could so Cecil would hear.

I went back to the tea table, tripping over Freddy, who struggled to his feet to come over and lick my hand. Cecil didn't approve. He shook his head at me but I patted the dog's knobby head anyway.

“Agent Lo, the man with INS who was here the other day?” I said. “He's missing. We don't know if he's gone back to Detroit. We're kind of worried.”

“Really?” Cecil showed little interest. He was going over the pages I'd marked with red pencil, shaking his head, or nodding when he came on a place where he agreed with my edits.

“He didn't come here yesterday, did he?”

He shrugged. “Not that I know of. Unless one of the servants …”

Since I had, again, seen no one but the guard at the gate and been let in by Cedric, who'd brought the tea and sandwiches, I doubted there'd been a message.

“Well, if you do—I understood he wanted to talk to you—will you ask him to call me or Deputy Dolly?”

The look Cecil gave me was odd, as if I'd proposed the unimaginable.

“Of course,” he said, absently, then pointed to a place I'd marked on one of the pages. “Do you really think I need take out this comma? I mean, it makes so much sense to me …”

Before we got too deeply into commas, I had questions. “I couldn't help noticing, Cecil, that the woman in the last of these chapters is named Amanda.”

He looked up brightly, smiling at me. “Yes, I thought that a good touch, don't you? Verisimilitude. Write what you know—that sort of thing.”

“Because that was your wife's name?”

He shrugged. “Yes. Using Amanda's name brought back my sadness at the news of her last illness. I wasn't home, you know. Not in Cannes, as our Tommy is, but in London for the day.”

“And the daughter—Courtney . . .?”

“I might change that, since Courtney has resurfaced to confuse my life. I wouldn't want to hurt the girl. When this novel comes out it will no doubt shoot to the top of the bestseller list immediately and she would see what I've done. Nothing, not even my art, is worth hurting her feelings. I'm sure you agree. Or would you suggest I remain true to my vision and leave things as they are?”

There wasn't an answer to that question and he knew it. More of the game, I imagined. Make me an accomplice.

“At the end, here.” I avoided his eyes, reached across the table, shuffled through the manuscript pages to the last of the chapters, and pointed. “Is this Amanda, Tommy's wife, dead?”

Cecil's eyes opened wide, he threw back his head and laughed so I could see every blunt, yellow tooth in his red mouth.

“Emily, Emily, Emily. What an evil brain you have. That's why you're a writer too, isn't it, dear? To get that evil out on paper.” He clucked a few times as if drawing me into a shameful secret with him. “Ill. The woman's ill. Our Tommy is a reformed
man. His past is gone, blotted out by the love of a good woman …”

“I don't think it's that easy. In the beginning you have Tommy murder his mother . . .”

“You only suspect that. Nothing's stated.”

“Then a girl who was his friend …”

“Again, no proof. That's the loveliest part of the story, that there is no proof. Tommy's murders take place in the mind of the reader, showing readers what evil lies within themselves. The point of the story, my dear—in case you've missed it—is that evil doesn't exist at all, except in the mind.”

“Then I don't think the book works,” I dared to say, despite his mounting irritation with me.

His eyes flew wide. “Doesn't work? Doesn't work?”

I watched as he fought for control. I'd found a vulnerable place: the book. He saw it as his message to the world. I was finally getting at what was going on; what my part in all of this was. I let my last comments fall away as I praised his characterizations and descriptions, then went over my additions and corrections. He sat without speaking.

Finally, he slapped his hands on the manuscript and called an end to our meeting. “But, I want you to see the ranch,” he said, scooping up the pages and setting them on a table behind him.

“You've come on a most auspicious day. Today my men work directly with the sheep. Very interesting. Raw life, Emily. Ah, yes, raw life. A treat for a writer. You'll see something most women
never get to see. Should deepen your work. Won't that be amazing? Your work deepened, maybe approaching the quality of mine?
”

We stood. He put a hand on my shoulder, pushing when I tried
to pull away from him. I sensed that whatever he had in store for me wasn't about my writing.

We were out the back door before I could protest, and then off across the fields.

“Most of my men are from Australia, where sheep farming is very big. Much easier to own a sheep station there than here, I've unhappily discovered.” He talked, excited and out of breath, as we walked. “Your long winters—well, the sheep can't graze the range the way they would there. They have to be put up in the barns. Terrible expense. But, come on. Come on now. The men will be about the business at hand. And I truly, truly, want you to see.” He clucked at me again, as if herding hens.

The green lawn was long and sloping. We entered a white gate behind a stand of tall fir trees, then crossed a dirt road toward the biggest of the barns. The barn was U-shaped, with an uplifted, central raised roof running around the U. Cecil took pride in pointing out the unusual form. “For fresh air,” he said. “Don't want the smell, or gasses, to build up. The very latest of everything. My wool will be famous worldwide, eventually.”

I took note of what I saw. I thought I might need to know the layout. There were other barns and small outbuildings. Then, down another slope, a building with no windows and a steep roof, surrounded by a high, wire fence.

I pointed and asked about the building, thinking I could distract him.

“More room for animals.” He muttered, looking where I pointed then waving a dismissive hand.

“And that one?” Another building, windowless, with a flattened roof.

He shrugged, taking no interest now, intent on pushing the high, sliding, wooden door of the big barn open. He put a firm hand on my back again, nudging me to enter ahead of him.

I was under Cecil's control.

The huge interior of the barn was dark except for bright lights near the back. It was difficult to see, though I heard men's voices yelling—one to the other. There were animal noises. The iron stink of blood saturated the air as we walked across the dirt floor. I looked hard at the light but couldn't see much through a thick cloud of dust and straw. I was close enough to see men moving quickly, back and forth, bending, standing, with voices yelling things I didn't understand.

And then a terrible animal shriek.

I pushed back hard at that hand on me.

“What's going on?” I demanded, unwilling to watch a slaughter, if that's what he had in mind.

“I told you.” His breath brushed my cheek. “A rare sight. An ancient ritual you'll never see again in your lifetime, Emily. I'm offering you an opportunity. You, the writer, to take part in this ancient rite. Probably illegal here, but then what do Americans really know about such things?”

Something medieval, and ugly, going on—the odd light, the sounds, the smell of fear in the building . . .

“Surely you're not squeamish.” His fingers sank into the flesh of my arm. He pulled forward and I pulled back. Maybe this had something to do with Jeffrey Lo. My mind raced everywhere.

Lo's disappearance. Maybe I would have to watch . . .

The murders in his book flew into my mind—each worse than the one before.

All a joke to this man.

It was almost a relief, as we neared the light, to see a sheep being pulled and pushed between the men, then out again, some age-old task accomplished.

“It's called mulesing, Emily.” Cecil, his face red and shining with sweat, tongue licking out and in, tipped his head close to mine. His maimed fist stayed firmly at the center of my back. I had to gulp around the stink of him, on top of the smell of blood and manure.

He laughed and pulled me closer to where a man held a young sheep on the ground, his knee deep into the animal's side. A knife flashed.

“They're not killing . . .” I was appalled by what I saw in this place of dark shadows and bright, color-draining light; raised knife hanging in silhouette. The animal, held struggling on the ground, was so white, and then bloody as the knife cut away skin, and wool.

“No, no, no,” Cecil laughed beside me when I turned my head and shivered. “The sheep like it. They won't get fly diseases later in the year. Makes them better sheep, with better wool. You understand about being a better sheep, don't you Emily?”

I lowered my eyes so I didn't have to watch. Still, I had to listen as another animal bleated, struggled, and then screamed.

When I looked up, the creature was being pulled from the light, blood running from its hindquarters. The animal's legs kicked feebly.

“My God! Give them something for the pain.”

He laughed and held on to me. “But, you see, Emily, this is our power, isn't it? Sheep have to learn that they're only sheep. Do you understand what I'm saying? I hope so. For your sake, I hope you're not a slow learner.”

I pulled as far from Cecil as he would allow. Like one of the sheep, I had no choice but to stand there. This wasn't a simple ritual. This was a deliberately cruel and barbaric act, maybe for my benefit. I got the message loud and clear.

I pulled at the hand on my arm again but, with surprising strength, he kept me pinned beside him.

“Stronger than I look, eh?” He gripped so tightly now I couldn't breathe.

“We're all animals, Emily,” he whispered at my ear. “They would kill you, if they could. Even sheep. They'd go for your throat, if you didn't show them who the master was.”

“You're crazy,” I gasped out.

“Remember Tommy, in the basement? Every time I get the chance I think of Tommy, and that dog—what was his name? Ah yes, Freddy. Dear Freddy. That's what an animal will do to you. We have to do it to them first. Can't you see that now? Ah, isn't this a sublime day . . .?”

I hit him hard with my head. He let out a scream and stumbled back, hands going to his nose, where I'd butted him. With as much speed as I had left, and with almost no breath left in my lungs, I ran out of that terrible place with Cecil stumbling, bent double, along behind.

I was at my car, holding on to the door handle and trying to breathe before he caught up to me. He waited near the steps to the house, gasping, a handkerchief pressed to his nose.

“Your purse is in the house, isn't it, dear?” He caught his breath,
frowned as he dabbed at his face, then stepped back as if I might hit him again. Which I fully intended to do if he came closer.

“You'll need your keys . . .” He breathed hard, swiped at his nose a last time, then folded the handkerchief and stuck it into a pocket. He smiled a sad, paternal smile as he shook his head.

I ran up the front steps and through the door, not afraid any more of this pudgy man with a high voice who had nothing more than a gigantic ego going for him.

My purse was in the morning room, along with the new chapters. I looked at the manila envelope on a side table. There was another check clipped to it. I wanted to tell him what he could do with his filthy book and his filthy money but I said nothing. I stood without moving, trying to think.

“This doesn't mean you won't finish editing my book, does it?” He clasped his hands at his chest and gave me a sorrowful look. “I know you didn't mean what you said before—about my book. Only a lapse. Stress, no doubt.

“You're kidding? After that . . .?” I yanked my head in the direction of the barns. “You think I don't recognize a threat when . . .”

“No, no, no. I'm sorry it upset you.” He spread his hands and gave me a deeply hurt and innocent look. “I had no idea you were so . . . squeamish. Just one of the rawer sides of life, Emily. You say you love living up here so much, so close to nature. I thought you'd want to see what farm life really is, what this nature you worship is truly about.”