Hummingbird Salamander(40)

Then I went on to the property. The shed, more like a tiny house, had a fallen-in, slanted roof and a lock on the ramshackle door. Someone a long time ago had painted it jaunty bright reds, greens, and blues, as if to contrast with the yellowing grass.

Around back, a rusty shopping cart and just as I’d relaxed—the loud sound of a body, a crack.

I turned, fast, in time to see a raccoon run off. There had been reports of Japanese raccoon dogs roaming the area, escapees from a zoo. But, no, this was just the usual. As I watched, the raccoon slowed, stopped, watched me from the long grass. Funny. I couldn’t meet its gaze. Not while breaking into the shed. Furtown’s atrocities against raccoons had been hardwired into my head.

How many of these run-down properties did Vilcapampa companies own? Too many, but maybe if you had that much capital, the small stuff became forgotten. Best way to live off the grid: in the amnesia zone of large corporations. Until the day they woke up and routed you with dogs or drones.

I doubted Silvina shared much history with the place. Maybe she’d known the racoon’s grandparents. I scouted enough to confirm it was abandoned, used a cracked window to get in the back door, felt the smell and texture of abandoned, old, not-used around me, and hid the go-bag under a tarp. Put an array of rusty tools overtop like mulch. Then got the hell out.

Relief.

My phones were still in the weeds.

Just like me.





[47]


I drove home. Past fast-food restaurants and baseball fields, parks and the brief ache of that particular coffee shop. Drove through a grid and grief of traffic so predictable it lacerated me now, when I wanted to go fast and reckless. We all expected the slowness, even if it didn’t slow us down. All of our minds drifting there together alone.

The needling pulse, the inability to resist, to analyze: why was Fusk so resistant? On principle? Because, in his circles he’d know Langer by reputation alone? Or because that hummingbird in particular meant danger to him? I had Fusk and Furtown and a journal full of memories. I had a man behind a fence doing violence to another man.

Even when the traffic lessened, I kept driving slowly—into our neighborhood. Drove like I was a solid citizen. Parked in the driveway and got out casual. Didn’t bother going inside but walked to the backyard, onto the lawn. The swing seemed peaceful to me. I liked standing in that space and not seeing a soul. I let out a long, deep breath, looking up at the windows of our house.

Start over. Try again. Work with what you have.

I called Fusk using yet another phone card, yanked out of Shovel Pig’s guts.

When he answered, I railroaded over his “Hello?”

“Fusk, next time I’ll call from an open line, easily traceable, and whoever you’re afraid of will know for sure I’m the one who called you. I’ll do it. I don’t care anymore.”

Wreck the shreds of my anonymity to expose him. Burn down another part of my life. Because I had to. Because they already knew where I lived, so what did it matter? Except, it did matter. I was sweating, pacing. Decided to retreat toward the woods.

Silence. He didn’t hang up, but he didn’t say anything. I needed more. I could feel it. Luckily, I had more.

“Fusk, this is your life: your son doesn’t write. Or call. He posts on social media when your birthday comes up. He definitely doesn’t visit. Your daughter doesn’t even bother with social media. Your wife’s been dead a decade. You had some boom periods, but now you’re about three months from going out of business. You like bondage porn. You visit prostitutes. You aren’t a criminal, not really, but you know criminals. And that’s just the start of what I know about you. Answer my questions or this could get worse for you. In a lot of ways.”

Fusk breathed into the phone like someone on life support.

“Fusk?”

“I knew from the look of you that you had a mean streak,” he said. Flat, neutral.

I almost laughed at that. The last thing I cared about was an insult from Fusk.

“Tell me what I need to know. You’ll never hear from me again.”

Almost in the woods. Out of the sudden sun. Out of sight.

“Promises.”

“Truth.”

“Won’t matter,” Fusk said. Matter-of-fact. Fatalistic.

“To who, Fusk?”

Something was in the spot where a vagrant had watched our house. Obscured by the branches of a bush, enveloped by a rush of dead leaves.

“I dunno. Wildlife traffickers. Anarchists. Lots of folks. You tripped a wire. I don’t want to be in the cage with you.”

“Because of Silvina Vilcapampa.”

Now I could see it clear: next to the empty bottle, propped upright like an impromptu gravestone: the little bird drone. Smashed. I had to work on my breathing again. I was suffocating, my chest tight.

A loud, bitter laugh from Fusk jolted me back to reality.

“What’s funny?”

“Silvina. There’s a name to forget you ever heard.”

“Tell me why.”

As I stood there, looking down at the drone, the bottle.

Worse, this time it wasn’t one cigarette butt. Instead, a half dozen, each a different brand. The boot prints that obliterated the former shoe prints looked melodramatic, like someone had taken care to push the tread into the drone and the leaves and earth beneath. Marking territory.