light flashed blue and red as the boat came closer. It was a police boat, and Culann’s little rowboat was clearly its destination. He pulled the oars in and waited.
Part IV
THE HOUNDSMAN
I’m reading a book I found at Worner’s place called The Pagan Saints. It’s all about how the Christian practice of venerating saints is really just a way of syncretizing ancient beliefs into modern religions. There a lot of saints associated with dogs in here –
I’ve been reading these parts aloud to entertain my companions. There’s an illustration of St. Christopher represented in medieval iconography as having the face of a dog. I held this up for the dogs to see. Alphonse raised his head up and down like he was nodding. At that point, I put the pot away.
The most bizarre entry in the book was St. Guinefort, a greyhound who lived in France in the Thirteenth Century. According to legend, a hunter came home and found Guinefort sitting in the room of the hunter’s infant son. Blood covered the walls and dripped from Guinefort’s jaws. Overcome with grief at the loss of his son, the hunter shot an arrow through the dog’s heart. At that exact moment, the baby cried out from the cradle. The hunter saw that the child was unscathed. Under the cradle, the hunter found a dead viper. Guinefort had saved the child and been killed for it. This tale of canine martyrdom resonated with medieval Christians, who revered the dog for nearly a hundred years until the Church declared the practice heresy.
That’s an impressive dog — sainthood sounds appropriate to me. I wonder if any of my dogs would ever do anything so heroic. Hell, I’ve never done anything close, and my life is probably about over. It’s one thing to be un- heroic, but another to realize the time for heroism is almost up.
1
“You’re Culann Riordan, aren’t you?” asked the first officer, a short and stocky young woman wearing a polo shirt and baseball cap, both bearing the words
“Yes.”
Culann’s little rowboat floated next to the police boat, the bow of which rose about five feet above the water line. Culann had to crane his neck to see the officers. The second officer, a tall, middle-aged black man—the only black man Culann had seen in Alaska—tossed down a line.
“Please tie one end to your vessel, Mr. Riordan.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Mr. Riordan,” the first officer continued, “we have a warrant for your arrest.
You’ve been charged with statutory rape in Illinois, and we’ve been asked to extradite you. Do you understand?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“We’d like you to climb up onto our vessel. Officer Williams is going to help you, and we would like you to cooperate with us. Do you understand?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good. Please climb aboard.”
“There’s something you should know,” Culann said.
“Why don’t you climb aboard so you can tell us?” she replied.
“It might be dangerous for you to be near me.”
“Are you threatening us, Mr. Riordan?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Get in the boat,” she said with such authority Culann found himself clambering aboard without consciously deciding to do so. Officer Williams pulled him up by the arm, and before Culann realized what was happening, he was face down on the boat bottom with his hands cuffed behind his back.
“Hey, Schuler,” Williams said. “Do you see that?”
“Jesus, what happened?”
“I count three.”
Culann still lie face down on the damp bottom. Williams yanked him up and
shoved him into one of the rear seats. The officer plunked a life jacket over Culann’s head and snapped it into place.
“What happened here, Mr. Riordan?” Officer Schuler asked.
“They’re all dead,” Culann said. “Not just them. The whole town. I’m the only one who survived.”
“How did they die, Mr. Riordan?” Schuler asked.
“I don’t know. It’s got to be some kind of virus or maybe poison. That’s why I’m not sure it’s such a good idea for you to get too close to me.”
“Thanks for the advice, Mr. Riordan,” she said.
“I’m going to call this in,” Williams said. He pulled his walkie-talkie to his lips.
“Dispatch, this is one-oh-five.”
There was no response.
“Dispatch, this is one-oh-five. Do you copy?”
Still nothing.
“Whatever it is, it seems to affect communications devices,” Culann said.
“You’re saying that there’s a virus or poison that breaks our radios?” Schuler said with a raised eyebrow.
“I know it sounds crazy, but there’s something weird going on here.”
“We better take him in and then come back to investigate,” Williams said.
“But we can’t just leave these bodies here,” Schuler replied.
“Okay, let’s fish them out.”
“Stay seated, Mr. Riordan,” Schuler said. “If you move, we’ll have no choice but to use force.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Williams sat in the driver’s seat and pushed down the throttle to bring the boat closer to Alistair’s rowboat, which floated about ten feet away. The engine sputtered and then shut down. He twisted the key in the ignition, but nothing happened. He went back to inspect the motor.
“Don’t bother,” Culann said.
“Please keep quiet, Mr. Riordan,” Williams responded.
Culann pressed his lips together and settled into his seat. He tried to guess how long these two had to live. They were half a mile from the orb, yet it still had managed to knock out the radios and engine. Culann wondered if he was somehow carrying the orb’s powers with him, like an infection. He reasoned that he had to be immune since he’d been the first to touch it and was still alive, but he’d seen too many people die to have much confidence in his own chances of survival.
Williams fiddled with the engine for a few minutes while Schuler kept watch on Culann. Then Williams gave up, and the two switched roles. After a few more minutes of futility, Schuler plopped down in the shotgun seat and stared out across the ocean.
“We’re dead in the water,” she said.
“May I say something?” Culann asked.
