two boards at shoulder level, he yanks a board right off the shed, then jumps back as though he expects a wildcat to leap out of the dark opening. When nothing emerges but the stench of old urine, he switches on his flashlight and shines it into the shed.
?This is fucked-up,? he says.
?I can smell it. I don'?t need to look.?
?You said you needed to be able to testify about what we found, right? Well, here it is.?
I peer through the hole long enough to see half a dozen malnourished, extremely dehydrated cats. Three or four others appear to be dead. Half-buried piles of excrement litter the dirt floor. My horror deepens when I realize that some of the cats are wearing collars. Mercifully, Kelly shines his light into the corner of the shed away from the animals, onto some short metal bars leaning in the corner.
?What are those?? I ask.
?Break sticks. Bars to pry a bulldog?s jaws loose from something.?
Kelly takes out his camera and begins videotaping the contents of the shed.
?We?'ve got to let them go,? I say.
Kelly makes a humming sound I can?t interpret, but it sounds negative. ?We don'?t want anybody to know we were here. I'm going to put that board back in place.?
I look back at him for a few seconds, then kneel and yank one end
of the bottom-most board away from the wall. While Kelly stares with a curious look on his face, two cats shoot through the opening and race away into the darkness.
?Put the other board back up,? I tell him. ?They don'?t know how many cats were in here.?
?There go the rest,? says Kelly, pointing at several dark shapes escaping cautiously through the opening. The last cat through seems barely able to keep its feet.
?Okay, Gandhi,? says Kelly, hammering the top board back on with his hand. ?Let?s put it back like we found it.?
As I wedge the bottom board back into place, a chilling sound reaches my ears. It?s a low, haunting howl, coming from somewhere deeper in the trees. It sounds like the crying of a soul that?s wandered lost for a thousand years.
?I
I don'?t want to see that,? I whisper. ?Whatever it is. Let?s get the fuck out of here.?
?Wait,? says Kelly. ?Danny?s talking to me.?
I?d forgotten that Kelly?s still wearing his earpiece.
?The VIP boat?s getting close to where we are,? he says.
?What do we do??
?Let?s check out that noise, and by then we?ll know if they'?re going to put in here or not.?
With a silent groan I follow him toward the wavering howl.
?We?re on a path,? he says, shining the red beam along a sandy track worn through the grass. ?I bet this ends where they fight the dogs.?
Thirty yards farther on, the path terminates in a small clearing. In the middle of the clearing lies a shallow pit dug in the earth. It?s about eight feet square, and eighteen inches deep.
?That'?s where they do it,? says Kelly. ?One place, anyway. In Afghanistan they fight them right in the street, but most places use a pit.?
Staring into the hole, I try to imagine two heavy-muscled pit bulls exploding out of the corners and smashing into each other, dueling for a death grip. But even standing in this spot, it?s difficult to believe that happens here. The howl comes again?lower in pitch, but much closer now.
?Over there,? Kelly says, pointing the beam toward the trees.
He trots across the ground, and I reluctantly follow. The first thing I see when I reach the trees is some sort of block and tackle hanging from a branch, the kind deer hunters use to gut animals. But as I try to look closer, the red light vanishes. Kelly has knelt to examine something at the base of the tree.
?Easy now,? he says, as though talking to a child. ?Just take it easy. We?re not going to hurt you.?
Dread flows into me like an icy tide, but after a deep breath, I force myself to take a step to my right. Four feet in front of Kelly, at the base of a cottonwood tree, a pit bull terrier lies shivering on its belly. It?s a brindle, I think, but so much of its coat is covered with dried blood that it?s hard to be sure. The howling has stopped. Now all I hear is panting, accompanied by a strange whistling sound.
?What?s wrong with it?? I ask, wondering why the dog hasn?'t bolted in terror. ?Can?t it move??
?I don'?t think so,? says Kelly. ?I think her back is broken.?
?How do you know it?s a her??
?No balls. Just checked.?
?Can a dog break its back in a dogfight??
?No way. Easy, girl, easy,? Kelly murmurs, sweeping his beam around the tree. The light stops at the trunk of the next tree. ?That'?s what did it.?
Leaning against the next tree, a blue aluminum softball bat gleams dully in the red light. Like the dog, it?s covered with dried blood. Beside the bat, three car batteries stand on a small square of plywood. Kelly shakes his head and aims the beam back at the wounded dog. The terrier?s eyes look plaintive, almost human, but shock and exposure have obviously taken their toll. Both forelegs have deep, suppurating gashes at the shoulder.
Kelly edges forward, but I grab his arm. ?That dog can still take your hand off.?
?Don?t worry, I know what I'm doing.?
As he moves closer to the dog, I ask, ?What?s that whistling sound??
He leans over the animal, training the beam on the top of its skull. Even with its back broken, the dog instinctively jerks its head away from Kelly?s arm.
?Christ,? Kelly says in a stunned voice. ?They cracked her skull with the bat. When she breathes, the air goes through it. Kind of like a sucking chest wound, I guess. I can?t believe she?s still alive.?
As I stare in horror, Kelly takes out his camera and videotapes the wounds, then painstakingly videotapes everything in the clearing. As sick as it makes me, I can?t take my eyes off the suffering animal. Her plight is beyond understanding, like that of so many human victims I encountered in Houston. The sound of running footsteps makes me jump, then Kelly is at my side.
?What is it?? I ask. ?Did the VIP boat land here??
?No, it passed us. Goddamn it!?
?Maybe they
fighting dogs on the boat.?
?No. That cruise was some kind of con?a diversion. It?s like they knew we were coming. I think we?d better get out of here.?
He stuffs his camera into his pack and starts walking away.
?Wait,? I call. ?What about her??
He stops and looks back at me. ?I told you. They can?t know we were here. We got nothing tonight, unless Sands himself owns the land we?re standing on. We?re going to have to do this
?
?We can?t leave her like this. Can?t you??
?What??
?Shoot her??
Kelly shakes his head. ?I can?t be sure the wound wouldn'?t show, and I can?t get close enough to stick the gun in her mouth.?
?We can?t leave her like this,? I insist.
He sighs like a soldier being forced to consider the feelings of civilians. ?You want to put her out of her misery?? He shines his flashlight back on the softball bat. ?There you go.?
