Dog Soldiers (29 page)
Authors: Robert Stone
He settled himself beside a dwarf oak tree on a rise above the house, and poked at the ground around him to start snakes. Across the oak
’
s dry roots he could see the length and breadth of the canyon. Its upper reaches were filling with pale daylight, but it was still night in the deep defiles where the police were.
At the canyon bottom, four cruisers were spinning blue light; there was an ambulance and four civilian cars, all balanced on the sloping shoulder of the lower canyon drive.
A line of men with lights advanced across the bottom, their beams picking up beer cans and rusted fenders in the thorny brush. There was a handler with two dogs and a second line of men with rakes, hacking at the chaparral.
Hicks rolled over and sprinted back to the shack. He found Marge still sleeping on the pile of blankets near the stove; he knelt down and tried to gentle her awake. Faint sleep lay on the weary angles of her face like thin snow on stone. She woke
at once.
“
How
’
s your need?
”
She blinked and scratched herself; she had been scratching in her sleep most of the night.
“
I don
’
t know yet.
”
He held out two Ritalins and a sopor in the palm of his hand. She took the sopor and closed his hand on the Ritalin.
“
We got to run
.”
he said.
“
The canyon
’
s full of cops. They
’
ll be up here any old time.
”
“
Oy.
”
He grabbed a spade and a clean rag from under the deep sink and ran outside to dig up the stash. It was a cold morning, and his breath frosted on the air. He had no proper clothes for the weather, but the digging warmed him and by the time he had the airline bag above ground the sun was over the ridge.
He kept a Land-Rover, its distributor removed, parked under a tarpaulin in the brush behind the house. The airline bag went into the back of it, covered with a square of oilcloth. Security.
For a few moments he rested, shielding his eyes from the sun, then took the spade and began to dig in the dry earth along the rear wall of the shack. Buried there, contained within a metal footlocker and immersed in grease, he had the complete parts of an M-16 semiautomatic rifle, together within an M-70 launcher attachment. Clips for M-16 and the deadly little five-inch M-70 cartridges he kept in a sealed plastic envelope just under the locker.
He took a canvas seabag from the Land-Rover, wiped the weapon clean of grease, and dropped the lot into the sea-bag.
Marge came out of the house with a box of Kleenex. He waved her away from the canyon.
He went inside and secured. Whatever he thought they might need or might identify them, he stuffed into a back pack. There was no way to conceal recent occupation. When they came, they would know by the smell that the place had been inhabited. They would find the dug ground where he had buried his contraband, and the puke-stained mattress out back.
He loaded the Land-Rover
and set about replacing its dis
tributor. As he worked, he expected them to come up the road at any moment. Rat reflexes of flight. He struggled to keep his mind clear, his actions orderly. The Land-Rover started nicely. Marge sat beside him, her arms folded across her chest, her head turned from the
sun.
“
Hang in, Marge.
”
He followed the road for a few hundred yards and then, gambling, turned down the first fire trail that wound down the seaward slope of the ridge.
“
I saw them,
”
Marge said.
“
What are they after?
”
“
Bodies.
”
It was a pleasure to master the curves of the narrow fire trail. Four-wheel drive.
“
Sometimes they find a car off the road with nobody in it. They have to look for the driver.
”
Marge nodded.
“
Some of these freaks up here love to strip wrecks. They
’
ll see a drunk run his car into the canyon and they
’
ll creep out at night to take the guy
’
s wallet. They go for the credit cards.
”
“
Christ.
”
“
The big ones eat the little ones, up here,
”
he said. He flung his free arm toward the hanging gardens of the can yon householders.
“
All summer these people sweat fire, all winter they sweat the floods. Shit creeps out of the night under those sun-decks, and they know it.
”
He was shouting at her over the wind and the engine.
“
Fucking L.A., man — go out for a Sunday spin, you
’
re a
short hair from the dawn of cre
ation.
”
“
It
’
s those girls,
”
she said after a while.
“
That
’
s who they
’
re looking for.
”
“
If it
’
s not them,
”
Hicks said,
“
it
’
s some other creature.
”
He glanced at her; she looked limp and weepy, coasting on sopors and deprivation.
“
Children,
”
he thought she said.
“
Yes. Children.
”
Less than a mile above Topanga Canyon Drive, they passed a man riding a brush-chopping machine. The man never glanced at them as they spun the Land-Rover around him, but looking in the rear
view mirror, Hicks saw him star
ing after the license plate.
The fire road led to a driveway connecting to Topanga Canyon Boulevard; the sign facing t
he highway read Of
ficial Vehicles Only. Hicks looked up and down for police cars and rammed the Land-Rover out into the westbound traffic. A helicopter shot across the ridges overhead and disappeared into the adjoining canyon.
They followed the coast road as far as Carillo State Park. Just beyond the park entrance Hicks stopped the Land-Rover before a hot dog stand that had a dachshund in a chef
’
s cap over it. He bought three plain hot dogs and two cups of coffee. The young counterman thanked him and said Praise Jesus.
“
Can you eat?
”
She tried nibbling at the bulbous wad of meat and then at
the toasted roll. She was holding the frankfurter near her eyes to blot out the morning sun; the ocean wind blew her tears across her cheekbones. She swallowed a little and
took a breath.
“
I can
’
t eat it.
”
She thrust the hot dog away from her, an object of shame.
“
No blame,
”
Hicks said. He threw the thing in a litter basket. When he had swallowed his hot dogs and gulped the coffee, they were under way again.
The wind off the beach was so powerful it was difficult to hold the Land-Rover in lane. Hicks drove for almost an hour, until they saw a shopping center where the stores were built in the style of log
cabins, with a length of hitch
ing post in front of the parking spaces. Across the road from it, on the ocean side, was a cluster of pastel bungalows centering on a ranch house with a flagpole before it. He eased the Land-Rover off the road and up to the ranch house.
Marge stirred and shielded her eyes from the sun and wind.
“
What
’
s this?
”
“
This is Clark
’
s.
”
They got out of the jeep and he looked her over.
“
How are you?
”
“
Shitty,
”
Marge said.
“
Like I have a cold but I guess it
’
s not a cold. And …
”
she looked up at him and the very color of her eyes seemed faded; she looked as though she had been injured.
“
…
my head is in a very bad place.
”
“
Could be worse, right?
”
She ran her chambray sleeve across her nose.
“
I guess so.
”
The office was in a section of the ranch house. There was a tall, tanned man behind the desk who looked like a football player turned actor. He seemed to be deliberately not looking at them.
“
Like an ocean view?
”
“
Certainly,
”
Hicks said.
He gave them a key and Hicks gave him fifty dollars. They registered in the name of Powers with an address in Ojai and they carried their own bags. Marge opened the bungalow while Hicks parked the jeep in the appropriate space. When he went inside he found her huddled on the bed with the cotton spread wrapped around her.
The ocean view was available through a wall-wide greasy window that admitted the ocean wind as well. It was very beautiful outside. There was a surf running and the breakers were creased with white wind drifts that sparkled in the sun.
“
It
’
s cold,
”
Marge said.
He found a heater switch beside the bathroom door and forced it up to high. It was difficult for him to keep from staring at the waves.
“
My God,
”
she said,
“
that goddamn wind.
”
He sat down on the bed near her and rubbed her shoulders but her body stayed tense. There was no way for him to know how sick she really was. He had once smoked a great deal of opium but stopping had not been much of a problem to him. He knew nothing about dilaudid.
“
Listen to it,
”
she said.
“
It
’
s just cruelty.
”
When he took his hands away she settled back on the sheets, still clutching the spread. The pain in her eyes gave him pleasure. If he could make the pain leave her, he thought, and bring her edge and her life back, that would give him pleasure too. The notion came to him that he had been waiting years and years for her to come under his power. He shivered.
“
You got too much imagination for a dope fiend.
”
She turned her face away.
From the backpack he took a bottle of Wild Turkey he had bought with Converse
’
s money and a bottle of sopors. He took two quick slugs of the bourbon and fed another sopor to Marge.
“
Want some whiskey with it?
”
“
No.
”
“
It helped me. I probably wasn
’
t as strung out as you.
”
She was facing the wall and he thought she was crying.
“
I can handle the rest of it,
”
she said.
“
But what
’
s in my head is really gruesome.
”
“
It
’
s just nerves. It
’
ll stop.
”
“
If there
’
s one word I
’
ve always hated,
”
Marge said,
“
it
’
s the word nerves. Do you know the picture I get from it?
”
“
I think so.
”
“
Do you?
”
“
Yeah, I know the picture.
”
Eventually, he thought, they would have to open the bag for her. He waited until the sopor dropped her into shallow sleep, then opened the door as quietly as possible and went outside.
As soon as he felt the sun, the urge rose in his throat.
Go.
His jeep was ten feet away. He had the keys in his Windbreaker. Go. He walked to the jeep and circled it, inspecting the treads. The treads were just fine.