'I called 911 on the car phone,' Feeney said. 'I told them we're going to need an ambulance.'
'Feeney,' Tess said. 'Whitney?' She wondered if she was ever going to speak in complete sentences again, or even lift her arms over her head. But Feeney understood what she was trying to ask.
'When I got the message from you, I thought I could get Whitney to give me a ride in her four-wheel drive, maybe play peacemaker between the two of you and get my big story at the same time. It never occurred to me Whitney's hunting rifle would come in even handier than her Jeep Cherokee.'
'You never know when you're going to need a little protection.' Whitney raised an eyebrow at Tess, keeping her rifle trained on Sterling. 'I believe I tried to tell you that once, back in the sub shop.'
Feeney picked up Sterling's gun and held it in his palm a little tentatively, as if it might bite him. Then he pointed it at his boss, now almost unconscious from the loss of blood.
'I've waited my whole life to hold a gun on an editor,' he said. 'I thought it would feel better than this.'
'Speak for yourself,' Whitney said, but her voice was shaking.
Chapter 29
On the first Friday in May, Spike left the hospital in a wheelchair. It wasn't altogether for show. Despite weeks of therapy, he still dragged his right leg, but his speech was clear now, or as clear as it had ever been, and his long-term memory no longer seemed like a piece of Alpine Swiss, the lacy stuff that was more holes than cheese. He could walk with a cane, but it was laborious and he didn't see any reason to pass up one last free ride. Especially, Tess suspected, when he saw the pretty young nurse who was to push him to the curb.
'You know, it was coincidental enough, you coming out of your coma just in time to get some action on the NCAA Final Four,' she said, once they were settled in his car and heading to The Point. Tommy was driving Spike's rusting Lincoln coupe, so she could turn around in the passenger seat and study her uncle, regal and serene in the backseat. 'But when your hospital discharge date happens to fall on the day before the Kentucky Derby, I
'You saying I faked my coma 'til Tommy came and told me about how those guys who beat me so bad got themselves arrested, thanks to you?' Spike asked. 'You think your old uncle could fool a whole staff of doctors and nurses, with their collitch educations? Then why would I stay so long, after I knew you was fine?'
'No, but…I mean-' Tess looked at Tommy, grinning as he perched precariously on the edge of the seat so he could reach the pedals with the toes of his zippered ankle boots. She looked back at Spike, studying the fast food joints and grimy stores along Caton Avenue as if they were the eighth wonders of the world. Perhaps they were to him. His recovery had bordered on the miraculous, doctors said, and Spike seemed to have a heightened appreciation of everything around him.
She was resigned to never knowing the whole story. Was Jimmy Parlez a real person, or some red herring Tommy had tossed out to distract her? Had Tommy been in on everything from the beginning, or had Spike, knowing how weak he was, made sure he was equally ignorant? Oh, well, some aspects of Spike's life had to remain mysterious, in part to protect the family from its seamier side, and in part because Spike liked being mysterious.
At The Point, Tommy pulled a small, brown-wrapped package out of the safe and handed it to Tess, while Spike settled on one of the vinyl padded chairs closest to the television.
'V is for videotape,' Tess said, turning it over in her hands. 'I guess my Botticelli buddy was playing fair and square, after all.'
'Bottle of what?' Tommy asked.
'Never mind, it's too complicated to explain.'
'Put it in the VCR under the bar TV,' Spike said. Then, almost as an afterthought: 'You eat breakfast today?'
'Of course.'
'You'll wish you hadn't.'
The video was of poor quality, a grainy black-and-white with the date and time in the lower right corner. But the images were clear enough-a large wooden fence in an oval shape, the suggestion of meadows on either side, stands of evergreens in the distance, all blurry as an Impressionist painting.
'What is this? What does it have to do with the ears?'
'It's a private ‘hunting' club in Cecil County.'
'I've never heard of such a thing.'
Spike gave her a look, as if he expected more of her. 'But you've heard of stocked ponds, for fishermen? Well, these are kinda the same thing. Rich guys come from all over the state-Washington and Philadelphia, even-hunt birds for sport. You ask me, ain't a sport if you can't bet on it, but they pay plenty for the privilege of bringing home a few mangled birdie bodies.'
'Is it legal?'
'Yeah, if you're just shooting up ducks and pheasants. The legislature seen to that, year in and year out. But these guys take it a step further. Got a little gambling room on the side-poker, blackjack, roulette. I got no problem with them being enterprising. I've even played a few hands there myself, when I found myself in the neighborhood. But this year they added a new attraction. That's what you're about to see.'
Tess studied the television. Even without the date, she would have known this video was shot in March-the scudding clouds, the muddy ground with patches of ice. It seemed so long ago.
'Fifteen seconds to post,' Spike intoned. Tommy held his fist to his mouth, making a mock trumpet call with real spit. '
A tiny object zipped across the railing and a blurry pack surged into the camera's view, trailing it. Tess needed a moment to realize they were greyhounds, not horses, and that the object of their frenzied desire was a mechanized rabbit.
'Illegal greyhound races? Why would anyone go to the trouble of setting those up?'
'Wait,' Spike said grimly.
The dogs disappeared on the far side of the track, and Spike provided a fake call while they were off-screen. 'And as they move past the second post, it's Down on His Luck in the lead, with Bum Steer hard on his flank. Down on His Luck. Bum Steer. Down on His Luck. Bum Steer. Now Dead Last is making a move on the outside and
The dogs swung back into view and Spike, using the VCR remote control, switched to slow-motion. The picture was a little clearer at this speed and Tess could see the dogs straining toward the finish, almost a frame at a time, like an animated cartoon reduced to its individual cels. The dogs looked as Esskay had when Tess first met her-too skinny, with raw patches on the fur-but their power was truly impressive. Tess unconsciously hunched her shoulders in rhythm with the dog in the lead, neck stretching forward until the cords were visible.
Then, just a few feet short of the finish line, the leader collapsed. A broken leg? The other dogs parted around the fallen dog, still intent on the rabbit. Another one fell, then another. In all, four dogs collapsed on the track well short of the finish, dark stains spreading beneath them.
'I-I don't understand,' Tess said, fearing she did.
'They get retired racers from some sleazy trainers,' Tommy said. 'Pay 'em twenny dollars a head, which is twenny dollars more'n most people would pay. Then these guys pay $200 to shoot 'em while they're running. Hit a dog, take home a set of ears. They haul the dead dogs off and bury 'em somewhere, somewhere secret. Don't matter if anyone finds them. Without the ears, there's no way to trace 'em.'
'But not all those dogs were killed. Two are still moving.' She pointed to the dogs' limbs, twitching as Esskay's did in her sleep.
'They put down the maimed ones,' Spike said. 'In some ways, it's the nicest thing they do. Now, hush a minute. The important part is coming up.'
Tess watched as a group of men streamed onto the track, waving their rifles over the heads and dancing around the bodies of the fallen dogs. They were quite pleased with themselves. It is difficult, after all, to hit a target moving almost forty miles an hour. One man leaned heavily on his gun as he grabbed the lifeless body of
