The Fish That Got Away

TO EVERY SEASON, by Mary Adler

TO EVERY SEASON, by Mary AdlerSummer

I’d begun to dread summer, a time I had once loved for its sunsets and temperate nights, for watermelon and heirloom tomatoes, and for the return of Monarch butterflies. Now, I thought of it as a killing season and feared for Jill Stoner, a hiker who had vanished six weeks ago. If we were honest, the most our search party could hope for was to find her body and something to tie her disappearance to Leonard Jackson, a recluse who had no family or friends and interacted only with the sick bastards who trained his fighting dogs.

Doug Cooper, the sheriff, called us together and gestured toward me. “I’m sure some of you already know Lucy Martin. She’ll be here for anyone who needs medical help.”

“No offense, ma’am, but aren’t you a veterinarian?”

“None taken.” I smiled at the man who had asked. “I’m also a volunteer EMT with the Sonoma fire department. I haven’t mistaken an ankle for a hock yet.”

Jokes about stubborn mules and old goats lightened the mood, but no one had forgotten why we were on Jackson’s land. A woman had been murdered each summer since he had moved here from Idaho. After a walker found the first victim’s body, someone reported having seen her with Jackson the day she disappeared. He denied meeting her and didn’t seem to care whether Doug believed him. A background check revealed a few drunk and disorderly charges when Jackson was younger, but nothing serious.

When Robert Ames, a Boise detective, called to ask why the sheriff’s department had run Jackson, Doug told him about our murder victim. Ames apologized. Said if he’d known where Jackson had moved, he’d have warned Doug that a suspected killer was heading his way. He wanted to know if our victim had blond hair, and when Doug said yes, asked if there was anything unusual about it. Any doubts Doug had about Jackson’s guilt vanished when Ames told him chunks of hair had been cut from their victims, too. And that both their murders had happened in the summer.

The second summer, another woman disappeared. A few weeks later, boy scouts found the remains of her body. She had been murdered, and a section of her blond hair had been taken. Two summers, two murders, and now, in the third summer, another woman had gone missing.

When Jill Stoner disappeared, Doug hauled Jackson in again, but he denied ever meeting her. Then a week ago, someone sent the sheriff’s office a photo of the hiker and Jackson by the creek on his property. After the lab authenticated it, the judge granted a limited warrant to search the woods on Jackson’s land.

“You’ll be searching in teams of two.” Doug passed out walkie-talkies. “There’s no cell service here, so use these to keep in touch. Be careful. Jackson has bragged that he’s salted illegal leg-hold traps on his property. You all know what they can do.” He lowered his voice. “If you find any, bring them in. Safely.”

He nodded to the K-9 officer, who offered Jill’s slipper to his Belgian Malinois. He kept the dog on lead, closer than he normally would, and headed to the creek.

As the searchers set off, Jackson shouted from his porch. “You’re not gonna find nothin’. Shame all you people wasting a beautiful day like this.” He laughed, then hate darkened his face, and he spat toward Doug and me.

We hadn’t hoped for much but still felt let down when the search party straggled in empty-handed. As we loaded up in the waning light, Jackson yelled, “See you next summer.”

A few weeks later, a worker inspecting utility lines found what was left of Jill. As with the other two women, a hank of her blond hair had been taken.

Autumn

One morning in September, the time of the autumnal equinox and of friends gathering to say goodbye to summer, Doug rushed into my clinic, carrying his dog.

“What happened?”

“Fox got him. I think it was rabid.”

He laid him on the table and stroked his head, until the sedative I’d given him kicked in. I removed the shirt binding Max’s wounds and examined every inch of his golden body. The fox had slashed his side, but the skin on his head and throat was intact. I cleaned the cut and put a drain in a nasty puncture wound on his shoulder. Then, I gave him a rabies booster and an injection of antibiotics.

“He’s going to be fine.”

Relief, then dread flickered in Doug’s eyes. “The rabies.”

“Did you…?”

“He’s in a sack in the truck.” He anticipated my next question, too. “Chest shot. I know you need the head.”

“Max should be fine, even if the fox tests positive. You’re the one I’m worried about.”

“When the fox lunged, Max jumped in front of me.” His eyes glistened, and he looked away. “He took the brunt of it.”

“You touched the fox and bound Max’s wounds with your shirt. Probably bare-chested.” His red face confirmed what I said. “You could have come in contact with the fox’s saliva, a carrier of the virus. I know of a case where a man was bitten by a rabid dog, got treatment right away, and recovered. Unfortunately, the friend who helped him didn’t realize the dog’s saliva had entered a wound on his own arm.”

“What happened to him?”

“He died a horrible death. I’d rather that didn’t happen to you.” I folded my arms. “Take off your jacket.”

I stared at him until he did.

“Didn’t he see a doctor when he realized something was wrong?”

“It was too late. Once symptoms appear, it’s fatal.”

“How long? Till they appear?”

He was really asking when he’d know Max was okay. “Usually two to ten weeks. The nearer the infection site is to the brain, the faster it progresses.”

I scrutinized his hands and arms and face for those scrapes and grazes that are a part of being sheriff in a rural county. His skin was unbroken.

While he washed up and slipped on a scrubs top, I bagged his shirt and put it in the hazardous waste.

“You always were a cautious one.” He teased, but the worry hadn’t left his eyes.

“That shirt is probably twenty years old and wasn’t much to look at when it was new.”

“Still has a good ten years in it.”

“Not now, it doesn’t.”

I watched him take a deep breath and pull back his shoulders, changing from worried dog owner to keeper of the peace. He turned toward the door. “I’ll get that fox for you.”

“No.” I grabbed his arm. “I’ll get it. There’s a protocol we follow. You go to Doc Pritchard and tell him I said you need a rabies inoculation. We don’t want to take any chances.”

“I’m fine. I don’t want a big needle in my stomach.” He made out that he was kidding about the needle.

“They don’t do that anymore. Now, it’s like getting a tetanus shot.” Sort of. “When you’re finished, Max will be ready to go home.”

“Any chance the fox wasn’t rabid?”

“We both know a healthy fox would have avoided you.”

He nodded slowly and gave me a hint of a smile. “Guess I hoped it was a fluke.”

“Stop worrying. You’ve kept Max’s rabies vaccinations up to date, and the booster will protect him. You’re the one at risk.”

* * * *

I stroked the fox’s dull flank, laid him on his back with his head hanging over the edge of the table, and sliced through the fur and skin of his neck. I was alone in the surgery, gowned, masked, goggled, and double-gloved, and I performed the decapitation with as little dispersal of fluids and brain matter as possible. I extracted a vial of virus-laden cerebrospinal fluid and locked it in the freezer with the brain tissue of a rabid raccoon.

After I showered, I looked for Daphne, my pit bull and self-appointed kitten nanny, who was where I expected her to be—in a pen with kittens who sparred and tumbled and leaped on her back, playing king-of-the-mountain—with Daphne as the mountain. She smiled that pitty smile and looked at me with the trust that had melted my heart when animal control laid her emaciated body on my table almost a year ago. She would have died if agents on a drug raid hadn’t found her, when they stumbled upon a training camp for fighting dogs.

One of the men arrested said the dogs weren’t theirs, that they belonged to Leonard Jackson. Daphne had been a champion fighter, but when Jackson realized she was worth more to him as breeding stock, he pulled all her teeth, so she couldn’t defend herself or her puppies, and bred her relentlessly.

By the time Doug interviewed the men about the dog fighting, they all swore Jackson had nothing to do with it. Because he lived off the grid—no phone, no computer—Jackson conducted his business face-to-face at prearranged locations. There was no way to connect him to the dog fighting. He didn’t go to jail, but he couldn’t claim the dogs, either. They were safe with a group that rehabilitated fighting dogs and found them homes. Daphne had already found a home with me.

* * * *

When Doug brought Max to the clinic ten days later for his follow-up, I told him the fox brain had tested positive.

“About that rabies shot Doc Pritchard gave me….” He raised his eyebrows. “It wasn’t in the stomach, but it also wasn’t pleasant.”

“Don’t whine. It’s not becoming.” I glanced up at him. “Besides, more of you working with animals should be vaccinated—especially your deputies—, but you’re all too darned stubborn. Probably don’t have tetanus shots either.” I removed the drain from the wound in Max’s side. “We could be living in the nineteenth century.”

I lifted Max off the table, took off my gloves, and gave him a treat. “He’s going to be fine.” We didn’t talk about the outcome, if Max were to show signs of rabies. He was all the family Doug had.

Winter

Wind off the Pacific flung eucalyptus bark against the clinic siding, and rain pummeled the building so hard it sounded like a troupe of mad Irish dancers were practicing on the roof. When Daphne nose-bumped my leg—twice—I realized the pounding at the back door wasn’t part of the storm.

I opened it to Smitty, a man who lived rough, doing odd jobs and pretty much keeping to himself. He couldn’t abide roofs or walls, but he used the clinic’s outdoor shower and sometimes spent rainy nights in a shed I had fixed up for him. He reminded me of the feral cat who had adopted me. We were good, as long as he could come and go as he pleased.

“My lord, Smitty, you’re soaked.”

“Don’t matter.” He pulled his rusty wagon into the clinic and uncovered a dog.

A golden retriever. One of the gentlest breeds.

“You okay, Doc?”

I forced a smile. “What happened to him?”

“Jackson’s men dumped him in a field. For the coyotes. I waited for them to leave, then hid him in the wagon. Got here as quick as I could.”

“You did good, Smitty.” He looked at me with so much hope that I had to turn away. “Let’s see what we can do for him.”

He cradled him and carried him into the surgery. “You can’t tell anyone he’s here. We gotta hide him from Jackson.”

“How about Doug? Will you tell him what you saw?”

He pursed his lips and nodded, then whispered. “You’re gonna be just fine, Ranger. Doc’ll fix you up real good.”

I started an IV, phoned Doug before Smitty changed his mind, and called in my best tech. It was going to be a long night.

* * * *

Smitty slept in the clinic next to Ranger’s pen for weeks. He sang to him and coaxed him to eat and helped him take his first steps outside. When I asked why he called the dog Ranger, he didn’t answer. I knew from the pattern of Ranger’s injuries that he had been a ‘bait’ dog, a dog who is chained and unable to defend itself from dogs whipped into a frenzy and set on it.

Ranger could have been taken from a car or a yard or a shelter anywhere in the country. I searched for his owner and was relieved when no one claimed him. I couldn’t have borne separating him and Smitty, and they couldn’t have borne it, either. Smitty worried that Jackson might see Ranger and want him back, but I assured him that, even if he recognized the dog, he wouldn’t dare claim him.

Spring

The hills glowed with golden poppies. As the days grew longer, and I felt summer nearing, I threw myself into birthing lambs and calves and finding homes for the boxes of kittens left on the clinic porch. I wasn’t the only one worried about summer and another woman going missing. Doug wanted to warn visitors about the three women who had been murdered, but county officials insisted the original newspaper articles were warning enough. Towns dependent on tourist dollars tended to downplay anything that might scare them off.

One afternoon, Max trotted onto the clinic porch with Doug close behind. “I have two dead foxes in the truck, Lucy. Hope this epidemic ends before a fox attacks a child.”

“Fish and Game are strewing vaccine-treated chicken heads all over the county. If enough foxes eat them, we’ll stop the epidemic.” I sent a tech for the carcasses and asked Doug if he wanted to share my roasted-vegetable sandwich.

“You know, I’ve read that plants can feel things, too.” He pressed his lips together, fighting a smile.

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear you.” If I started thinking about carrots having feelings, I’d starve to death. “How about coffee?”

“Can’t stay. I need to make some calls.” Anger roughened his voice. “Jackson is gearing up for another dog fight.”

I set down my sandwich.

“Sorry. I spoiled your lunch.”

I waved his concern for my lunch away. “What are you planning? Are you bringing in ATF and the DEA this time?”

“One person I trust at the DEA will ride along, but I’m keeping this quiet. So, it doesn’t leak like the last time. A friend who heads a gang unit in Oakland wants in. He thinks the dogfights are connected to automatic weapons that are showing up on his streets.”

“How did you find out about the fight?”

“Jackson’s men stole a pack of beagles to bait his fighting dogs.”

The betrayal of the dogs’ trust was crime enough. They would be bewildered and frightened—and then—the brutality took my breath away.

“Their owner and his hunter friends vowed to put him out of business, so they told me what was coming up. They want to go on the raid.” He looked toward the hills. “I think they’re looking to beat the hell out of him.”

A not-so-nice part of me needed to see Jackson bloodied. “Let them help.”

* * * *

A few weeks later, I sat in my truck somewhere east of Geyserville, the smell of ashes from the Kincade fire filling the cab. My stomach churned. Luckily, I hadn’t eaten. Instead, I’d used my dinner time to prepare my EMT kit.

The paramedics and I waited for our signal to join the raid on the dog fight. I chafed at the delay—a dog might need me—but Doug had to neutralize people with a lot to lose before bringing us in. Finally, he signaled it was safe, and I followed the ambulance into the site.

I took a moment to orient myself in the chaos. Deputies cuffed men and loaded them into a van, while K-9 teams searched for drugs and weapons. I ran toward the hay bales that formed the fight ring. A brindle pit bull with broken legs lay in the bloody arena. He looked dead, but when I knelt beside him, he growled, eyes still closed. I injected him with as much sedative and analgesic as he could handle and waited for him to relax.

I was fitting him with a basket muzzle, when an exchange of gunshots scared the hell out of me. When they stopped, I crept around the edge of the fight pit. A deputy in a Kevlar vest sat on a hay bale, clutching his chest, and a man lay bleeding from a stomach wound. When I saw Doug, I let go of the breath I hadn’t known I was holding.

“This what you call safe, Lawman?”

“Damned fool tried to shoot his way out of here.” He reset his hat. “My guess is he’s wanted for something a lot more serious than watching a dogfight.”

Paramedics started an IV on the wounded man and asked if I’d cover for them, so they could leave. I nodded and ran back to put splints on the brindle dog’s legs. A few minutes later, siren bursts hung in the air, as the ambulance sped away with its patient. While I worked, animal control lured snarling dogs and trembling dogs and just plain shut-down dogs into crates. One of them carried a lifeless shepherd. I checked that they didn’t need me and asked if someone would help me carry the brindle dog to my truck.

A tech wearing a sweatshirt that said “There’s no such thing as Just a Dog” helped me slide a stretcher under him.

Doug hurried toward us. “I need your help.”

“What is it?”

“Someone—probably the beagle guys—jumped Jackson. He was cut.”

“Good.” I motioned for the tech to lift the dog. We walked away. Doug caught up, as we slid the dog into a caged area of my truck.

“Lucy, I can’t have Jackson bleeding all the way to jail. Will you…?” He nodded back toward the arena.

My helper spun around. “You’ve got to be kidding, sheriff. Look at this dog! Jackson deserves whatever happens to him. They all do.”

“You know how I feel about him.” I checked the dog’s IV. “Let one of your men patch him up. They have first aid kits.”

“He saw you. Knows you’re an EMT.”

I shrugged a so what?

“He asked for you.”

I turned and met his eyes. “He must have a death wish. If he had any brains, he’d be afraid of me.”

“He knows you despise him. He’s taunting you, paying you back for taking Daphne. It kills me to ask you, but I don’t want anything to screw up this arrest. You’re the most qualified person here to treat him. I wouldn’t care if he bled to death, but not tonight.”

I’d wanted Jackson hurt. Seemed ungrateful to complain now.

I grabbed my kit and asked the tech to stay with the dog, then trailed behind Doug, telling myself I could do this.

Jackson held a bloody cloth to his face.

“Looks like dogfighting is becoming dangerous for you, Jackson. Why not give it up?” I felt obligated to ask.

“I’ve got the right to do what I want. A scratch like this won’t stop me. Nothing will… Lucy.” He said my name as if he were flirting, but the pause before it turned it into an ugly promise.

Doug stepped forward.

“Give me some room, Doug.” I waved him away and opened my kit. “Ever think about the dogs, Jackson?”

“All the way to the bank.” He lowered his voice so Doug couldn’t hear. “And don’t think I’ve forgotten you have something that belongs to me.”

I clenched my teeth and double-gloved. I forced myself to clean the cut on Jackson’s face as gently as I could and applied an analgesic I’d mixed that evening.

He flinched when the cold salve filled his open wound, then leered at me. “Be gentle. It’s my first time.”

I pretended I hadn’t heard him. I closed the wound with butterfly strips, pressed on a leak-proof bandage, and told him not to take it off for a week, the time it would take to form a scab. I put the salve container and bloody gauze in a double plastic bag, pulled my gloves off inside-out, and stuffed everything in my pocket.

“Must gall you having to minister to me.” His smile gave me chills.

I looked into his eyes. He must have seen something unsettling there, because the smile faltered, but then his lip curled in contempt.

I closed my kit. “It wouldn’t hurt to have a doctor take a look at you.”

“I can take care of myself. They’re nothing but a waste of money.” He spat. “Like vets.”

I shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

I made my way back to my truck and lied when the tech asked if I was okay. After he left, I pulled myself into the driver’s seat and leaned against the steering wheel until I stopped feeling faint. I didn’t have time to think about what had just happened. The brindle dog needed my help.

* * * *

I’d told Smitty about the raid and wasn’t surprised to find him waiting on the porch. He and my tech put the brindle dog on a table, while I changed clothes and scrubbed my hands and arms.

We almost lost the mauled dog twice, and for a moment, I’d thought it might be kinder to let him go, but he’d made it this far and deserved a chance. I wondered how hard he would fight to stay in a world that had shown him nothing but cruelty. Smitty said he’d watch over him and unrolled a blanket next to his pen. Maybe the dog would choose to live.

Shortly after I cleaned up, Doug came by to check on the dog—and me. He apologized again for asking me to treat Jackson.

“Doug, we did what we had to do. It’s over.”

We drank coffee on the porch and watched pale yellow light rise behind the hills. We were both exhausted and unsettled by our night’s work.

“The dog fighting world won’t recover from this raid for months. Hope they blame Jackson.” He looked into his mug. “You know he’ll be out by this afternoon, and then his lawyer will get postponement after postponement, hoping the whole thing will go away, and Jackson will go back to his ranch and not come out until the next dogfight. Just like the other times.”

I wanted to tell him not to worry—I had counted on Jackson returning to the isolation of his ranch without spending a day in jail. He would ignore the headaches and chills, thinking he had the flu, and by the time the convulsions started, and he realized he was dying, he would be too weak and disoriented to seek help.

I thought of Jill Stoner and the other women he had killed. Of the dogs who had suffered. Of Daphne. And I couldn’t think of a more fitting way for him to die. Rabid and alone.

I breathed in the sweet scent of lemon blossoms and looked forward to a beautiful summer.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR ᐅ

Mary Adler escaped her former life as an attorney and dean at CWRU School of Medicine for the gentler world of World War II and the adventures of homicide detective Oliver Wright and his German shepherd, Harley. She grounds the mysteries in the realities of wartime but tempers them with the warmth of friends, of food shared, and, of course, wonderful dogs. Join her in starting each day with the question poet Mary Oliver poses: “Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?”