The Totem Read online

  Down the hill now, farther into town, he reached the stoplight where the two main roads intersected, waiting until the red changed to green and angling right, driving down two blocks and turning left to pull in at the wide two-story building made of cinder blocks and painted white that was his office. Not just his, but everybody's. Every vet in town. There were eight of them, and they had long ago decided that instead of each one having a separate office it was better, at least cheaper, more efficient, if they all combined to build a place that would be better equipped than each could ever manage alone. In addition to the offices, there were operating rooms, a storehouse, and a kennel. It had been expensive, but the ranchers out here paid to keep their livestock healthy, and besides there hadn't been much choice. To operate on bulls and stallions, you just had to have the space.

  Headlights arcing, the old man went down the driveway toward the back, stopping by the double doors that led in to one operating room. The parking lot was walled with concrete, and he sat there, cut his motor and his lights, waiting in the dark, flexing his hands and kneading his legs to get more life back into them. He wondered how long it would be before he got to bed. He'd never felt so tired.

  Then he heard the motor, saw the headlights flashing up the drive, and stepped from the car as Bodine's truck pulled into view. The old man lost his balance, put his hands against the car, then waited, took his keys, and opened the double doors. He went inside and switched on all the lights. The room was suddenly like day, brighter, like the starkest hottest day he'd ever seen, fierce overhead lights stabbing down at him. He had to turn away, barely glancing at the long wide metal table in the middle, at the white walls and the cabinets and rows of medical supplies. He sought out comfort in the darkness, waiting for Bodine to back the truck up to the entrance. Bodine came up almost into the room, then shut off his lights and motor, and stepped down onto the concrete parking lot.

  The old man didn't move.

  "What is it? Something wrong?" Bodine asked.

  The old man shook his head. "You'll have to help me."

  Bodine nodded, walking past him toward the glare that spilled from the entrance to the room. He'd helped with this before, heading toward the pulley that was on a bar up on the ceiling, grabbing at the straps that hung down from it, tugging at them so the pulley rolled along the bar up there and stopped above the back bin of the truck. He climbed up into the back and hitched the straps around the midriff of the carcass, just inside the legs. It was heavy work. Even though the steer was not full-sized, he still had lots of trouble heaving at its bulk so he could slip the straps beneath and slide them into position. Once the stench of all those open guts, left out in the sun all day, became too much for him, and he was forced to turn away. Then he had the straps in place, and he secured them, pulling downward on the chain to work the pulley until the steer was slowly rising, its hoofs dangling above the floor of the truck. A hunk of guts dropped out and plopped near Bodine. He didn't even look at them, just climbed down from the truck, tugging at the straps to slide the carcass from the truck, across the room and then above the table. Another hunk of guts dropped. He grabbed the chain and yanked down on it in the opposite direction, the pulley in reverse so the steer was slowly settling onto the table. Next Bodine slid the straps from beneath it, heaving at the carcass, and he moved the pulley toward the entrance to the room.

  The old man was inside, his hand above his eyes to shield them from the light.

  "You're sure that you're okay?" Bodine asked.

  "I'm fine."

  "All right then. Guess it's up to you now. What about those guts that fell?"

  The old man looked around. "Take these forceps and that plastic bag. Put them in it."

  Bodine did what he was told. He set the bag on the table. "How soon till I hear?"

  "I don't know yet. I can't tell yet what I'm looking for. Tomorrow afternoon."

  Bodine nodded, walking toward the truck. "I'll be waiting."

  "Yes, I know you will."

  SIX

  Then, truck gone, it was quiet. No, the lights up in the ceiling made a buzz. Funny how he'd never noticed that before. But then he hadn't been here this late in some while. In the daytime, there were always sounds and people. He just wasn't used to being here alone.

  The old man kept his hand near his eyes to shield them from the light, staring at the carcass on the table. What to do? What he'd said was true. He didn't know what he was looking for. He needed rest, a chance to think and sleep. He needed to sit. And then he realized. He hadn't even thought to ask Bodine to help him slide the carcass into the cooler. He didn't have the strength to do it on his own. He could put the bag of guts in there. But not the carcass. It would simply be too much for him. He wondered what to do.

  The phone rang. He almost didn't answer. But he thought about it, and he guessed it would be his wife, and so he walked with effort toward the door that led down to his office, reaching for the phone beside the counter by the door.

  "Doctor Markle here… Hi. How are you?… I'm just about to leave… I don't know yet. Something got a steer… We're not sure. We brought the carcass in to see. Listen, don't wait up. I might be half an hour or so. Go to bed. I'll tell you all about it in a while… No, I won't be long. I promise… Right. Goodbye."

  And he hung up. She'd told him that she loved him, and he'd smiled. With his hand above his eyes again, he turned to face the carcass, and he realized that he had lied. He would not go home directly. He would stay and work a little on the steer. Either that or let it stay out all night decomposing more until he couldn't do the proper tests. A few slides for the microscope. Maybe take a portion of the brain and cool it for tomorrow. Test the feces. Take a sample of the blood, the little that there was and in such poor condition. He winced from the sickness in his stomach, and he almost changed his mind. Then he braced himself. Nothing for it but to go ahead. His legs heavy, he went over to the sink and washed his hands and put on rubber gloves, a gown and face mask, out of habit really, and to keep his clothes clean, and to bear the stench. He didn't think his samples would be clean. All the same he liked to do things right and not contaminate anything.

  So he stumbled toward the carcass, and he wondered what he'd tripped on and then realized it was himself. His legs weren't working properly; he'd have to do this soon and rest. There were three facts that he needed to learn right away. Whether the steer had been dead before the animal had gotten at it. Whether the organs were all there. Whether the predator had left some sign of what it was. The first he thought he knew. If the steer had been dead, especially for some time, the blood would not have flowed. No matter that they hadn't found the blood, it clearly wasn't here. The predator had maybe drunk it, but that still meant that the steer was freshly killed. The only sure test was to open up the heart. A lot of blood would mean the steer was long dead when the animal had gotten at it. Little meant the steer had still been living when attacked. The point was that a dead steer meant a scavenger, and that would help identify the animal that had picked at it.

  The fact about the organs, whether all of them were present, was related to the first. If some of them were missing, the assumption was that they'd been eaten, and that would help eliminate a good deal of the mystery. The steer had been attacked for food. On the other hand, if all the organs were still present, he'd have to figure why. The extensive damage meant that the animal had lots of time to eat. Even if it had been scared away, there had to be a reason why it didn't take advantage and eat something at the start. Could be that the steer was dead, and something, not a scavenger, instead an animal that preferred fresh kills, had tried to eat and given up. Could be too the steer was dead, and something, a disease perhaps, had made the meat taste bad. Could be, but the only way to tell that was by checking on the cause and time of death.

  The other fact he needed, a sign to help identify what kind of animal had done this, he was hoping he would find as he examined the organs. Something like a piece of fur, a tooth-mark, a
nything. But that would come as he went through the process. First he'd get a sample of the heart, the brain, the feces. Since the carcass was already open, he would start in on the heart.

  But as he went around the table, looking at the open guts, at first he couldn't find the heart. Then he did, mashed in with the lungs and upper stomach. It was more complete than he had hoped, and he was cutting carefully around it, reaching in to pull it out and slice it into quarters. He was taken up with interest now, breathing fast and hard, staring at the sectioned heart. It was almost empty. That was that. The steer had died from the attack. Of course it might have been diseased as well, and he would tell that as he checked the other organs. But at least he knew that what had done this was no scavenger. It had been a full-scale hunter, on the prowl for food.

  His legs gave out, and he was forced to grip the table. This was wrong. He had to get away, get home, and get to bed. But he couldn't make his legs move. Then he had them working, and he straightened. He tried to go but couldn't take his mind off all those organs, sorting through them. Liver, bladder, kidneys, all those stomachs. He couldn't understand it. Even shredded as they were, it seemed that nothing was missing. But that shouldn't be. He cut deeply into the abdomen to where the bowels were still intact and took a sample of the feces. The stench, on top of what was in his stomach, made him almost retch. He had to find a reason. If the animal had been a hunter, then it should have eaten. But it hadn't, and he didn't understand.

  His legs gave out again. His chest constricted. The pain shot through his left arm, and he was praying. He thought about his wife. He thought about how she had said she loved him, and he wished that he had said it back. He thought about so many things. Just before he fell, he singled in on one small portion of the guts, staring at them, disappearing into them, and noticed a detail so horrible that in his death at last he understood.

  SEVEN

  They found him in the morning where he lay on the floor by the table, one fist full of guts that he had taken with him as he fell. That was shortly after seven. The men who found him phoned a doctor, but it wasn't any use. The doctor came and knelt and checked him and just shook his head.

  By then the old man's wife was there. She had waited up for him, but then, in spite of all her good intentions, she had gone to sleep. She had wakened early and had missed him, searching through the house. She'd seen that the car was gone and phoned the office, but there wasn't any answer. She had waited half an hour before going into town.

  She came around the corner and started running when she saw the ambulance. The double doors were open, and she saw a crowd in there, and she was pushing through, stopping as she saw him, and she gasped. She ran across to him, kneeling down to cradle him, then yelling at him, pushing, shouting that he was a fool. No one understood. The doctor had been just about to leave. He tried to calm her, to lead her carefully away, but she kept screaming. Then she started hitting the body, and the doctor had somebody hold her while he opened his bag and swabbed her arm and filled a hypodermic, giving her a sedative. It didn't calm her right away. She kept screaming, began to sob, crouched beside her husband once again, and finally it seemed all right to try to make her go. They led her down the hallway to the office.

  The medical examiner was there to see the last of it. He waited while they led her down the hallway. Then he checked the body, doing more or less the same as what the doctor had, but taking more time, making notes. He straightened, putting pad and pen together, turning toward the open double doors as behind the people there he saw the police car pulling up. He waited while the driver's door was opened and the big man got out, putting on his hat. The uniform was tan, the hat a Stetson. Even with the people there the policeman's face could be seen above the crowd, burly, craggy, strong-boned with high cheeks, just a little puffy near the eyes, the medical examiner assumed from too much beer. What the hell, if you worked the hours he did, you'd be puffy near the eyes as well, never mind the beer.

  The policeman's name was Slaughter, and that had meant he almost didn't get the job. He had settled here five years ago, and when the old chief had died, Slaughter had asked the town council for the job. At first the council was reluctant, but Slaughter had showed them his credentials, and they couldn't pass him by. Twenty years a policeman and detective in Detroit, trained in every manner of investigation, tired of living in the city, wanting to come out and live in peace, he had tried his hand at raising horses but then realized he wasn't any good. The only thing he knew was being on the force; he did it well. The council needed him. He needed them. They finally worked it out. Some had feared, thinking of his name, that he would be too tough for them, that coming from the East he would treat them as if he were in the city, breaking heads as if this were Detroit. But they had phoned Detroit, and reports about him there were even better than he claimed. He had never had a complaint against him. He was never one to push. So they had tried him on condition, and they had kept him ever since. At least in terms of lack of crime, the town had never had things better.

  As the medical examiner kept watching, Slaughter started, big and solid, through the crowd, talking to them, his hand pressed down around his gunbelt, bullets showing, that was shoved a little low around his waist. Then the crowd was in back of him, and he released the hand from his holstered gun. Instincts from the city. Among the few that Slaughter still retained. Standing there in cowboy boots and cowman's hat, a toothpick in his mouth, he looked about as local as a person could become. Not because he wore them, but because he wore them with a certain pride and made the townsfolk proud to see him and to speak with him. That faint inflection in his voice that he had picked up since he'd come. To see him grow to meet the town had made the town aware of what it was. He had added to it.

  Now he paused and glanced around. Taking the toothpick from his mouth, he walked across and frowned down at the body. "Old Doc Markle?"

  "Yes, I'm sorry. I know how you felt about him."

  Slaughter didn't answer.

  "Heart attack," the medical examiner said. "His wife was here to see him. She's just down the hall."

  Slaughter looked at him.

  "She had to be sedated."

  Slaughter shook his head. "She'll have it rough from now on." His voice dropped with sorrow. He tried to distract himself by paying attention to details. "What time did he die?"

  "I don't know yet. Rigor's set in. That means several hours."

  "Some time in the night?"

  "It had to be. Otherwise somebody from the office would have seen him."

  "Maybe. Let's find out for certain." Slaughter glanced around. He saw the people by the open double doors and went across to talk to them. They listened, saying something back to him. He spoke again. They nodded, slowly breaking up to go away. He turned and saw the people in the green lab coats standing by the wall. He waved to them to follow him as he walked back toward the table.

  "You all work here. Anybody see him just before you closed?"

  They shook their heads. There were six men and two women. One, the youngest woman, twenty, maybe slightly more, began to cry. It was clear, the way her face and eyes were red, that she'd been crying earlier as well. They were looking at the body, then away, then in a moment back again.

  "No," one man was saying. He was red-haired, freckled, maybe thirty-five, thin and going bald. "I came through to lock the place, and Markle wasn't here."

  "You check all the rooms?"

  "Yes. In case someone forgot to lock them."

  "What time did you check?"

  "Shortly after six."

  "Were you the last to leave?"

  The red-haired man nodded.

  "Anybody else? You've got kennels. Anybody come in after that to check the animals?

  "I did." The older woman, maybe thirty-five as well, short but solid, her hair cut to just below her ears. "A little after ten. The doctor wasn't here then, either."

  Slaughter looked at her. "The doctor? He said Markle," pointing to the first man
.

  "He's a vet. I just work here."

  "That means Markle came in after ten," the first man said, "and died a little after."

  Slaughter glanced at him and shook his head. "I don't know. You're the one who found him?"

  "That's right."

  "Did you change anything?"

  "I turned the lights off."

  "What about the doors?"

  "Well, they were open."

  "Then it wasn't after ten," Slaughter said. "When I sent all those people home, I found a man who's got a room in a building that looks down on here. He was out till well past midnight. He came home and checked his window, and he's sure that everything was dark down here. If the doors were open and the lights were on, he surely would have seen it. No, the doctor came here after one. Now I know you people put in heavy hours the same as all the rest of us, but one o'clock, I can't believe that's normal."

  No one answered.

  "What about this steer? Tell me what's the story on it."

  "I don't know." The vet came around the table, looking at it. 'You can see that it was dead before he brought it in."

  "You're sure of that?"

  "It had to be with all that damage. You can see that he was doing tests on it. There isn't any record why."

  "You don't know whose it is?"

  No answer.

  Slaughter looked at him, then at the steer and at the body, and he turned to face the medical examiner. "Heart attack, well, maybe. All the same, I think we'd better run some tests."

  "Again?"

  But Slaughter only frowned at him. Then hearing someone coming through the hallway door, Slaughter turned and saw the doctor. He went over to him. "How is Mrs. Markle?"

  The doctor shook his head.

  "Can I speak to her?"

  "She won't understand."

  "How soon till she does?"

  "Maybe after supper. She'll be at the hospital. I'll check on her and let you know."