"Whitehurst, Patrick - Sharkness" - читать интересную книгу автора (Whitehurst Patrick)

SHARKNESS
By
Patrick Whitehurst

Traffic came to a screeching halt on Lighthouse Avenue when, quite suddenly, a dog leapt into the on-coming traffic lane. Unfortunately for the dog the vehicles did not stop. Amidst the screech of brakes and the loud blaring of a horn, it thudded to the ground, hit by the steel bumper of a Volkswagen Bug. People began to exit their vehicles to survey the situation and a small assembly approached the wounded animal. The dog whined as he lay crumpled on the asphalt. It searched through the gathering crowd for a face it could recognize. Bones had been shattered upon impact with the VW's bumper and the dog was doomed to die, as it had been even before it was hit.

"I didn't see it coming!" Cried the woman who had been driving the VW. "I feel awful, just awful!" Wearing a stained, food encrusted waitress uniform, the woman sobbed and reached into her apron for a napkin in which to wipe her tears. At that moment the crowd which had assembled around the dying creature moved suddenly, as if a swarm of bees had invaded their midst.

Gasps rose up from the drivers and passengers of the cars as a pack of dogs slowly galloped into the traffic lane. Everyone made room for the creatures as they went to their fallen companion. A man, dressed in a blue snow parka, led the pack of dogs to their destination. He mingled with the creatures as though he were one himself. A few of the on-lookers even swore to the fact later that, while the man appeared to be human, there was something undistinguishable about him, something that made him seem more like a beast than a man. He weaved through the halted traffic and whispering crowds like a magician, until the accident victim was at his feet. The dogs circled around their friend, cocking their ears to his whimpers and moans, while the injured and dying dog stared at the man wearing the parka. He knelt down by the hurt animal, paying no mind to the murmuring throng of on-lookers. The sheer number of canines that appeared made many of the witnesses nervous and, until traffic resumed, they took refuge within their vehicles. The driver of the VW approached the man, with tears wetting her cheeks.

"I didn't see it." She apologized. "I just didn't see it, it was so quick. Man, I am so sorry."

"It is a he." Responded the man in the heavy jacket. "His name is Davis." Barker reached up and pulled the hood of his parka down. He could hear the far-off wails of sirens in the distance. They were undoubtedly on their way to Lighthouse Avenue. Caressing Davis behind his ears, Barker looked up at the frantic woman. "It is not your fault." He said to her. "Davis would have died whether or not you had run him down. There is more to this accident than a collision."

"What?"

Pointing to a red blotch on the animal's chest, Barker said, "This is no collision wound, it's a bullet wound. He's been shot." He gathered the wounded dog up into his arms then, yet heard no cries of pain, and realized Davis had gone. The other dogs lined up near the man's feet and prepared to go wherever Barker went. Silent and mournful, they followed him to the sidewalk and up the street two blocks to an area covered in green grass. It was there where Barker laid Davis.

"You knew better than to run into the street, Davis." He said to the animal. "But you were shot, weren't you? You were scared." Seeing something in the dog's mouth, Barker knelt down beside the lifeless creature. Dangler, Griz, and the rest of the dogs stayed well back as Barker examined what was left of their travelling companion. Even the newest and youngest member of the group, the Mastiff puppy named Destiny, knew to keep quiet.

Barker pried open the dog's inanimate mouth and found, tucked into a corner behind his tongue, the remains of a roast beef sandwich with lettuce and tomatoes. It was obvious that the dog had only recently snatched the sandwich from somewhere, for it was still unchewed, when he was shot. Barker ran his hands over the dog's face and told him he was a good boy. When he stood up again, he found a man standing behind him.

The man was an old hippy of sorts. He wore a red and purple tie dyed sweatshirt with a pair of cut-off jean shorts. His hair, tied into a long pony tail, and beard were grey with streaks of white peppered throughout it. Barker noticed the man's apron and assumed he worked down at the bakery near the intersection where Davis had been hit. The police were only just now arriving at the scene.

As a homeless man who ran with a pack of strays, he had no desire to be questioned by them. The old hippy seemed to sense this.

"I know you probably want to split, man." He said, "but I thought you might be interested in what I have to say. That was your dog, right?"

"He was my friend." Barker told him.

"At any rate." Shrugged the man. "He was shot, am I right?"

"I found a bullet wound in his chest." Barker figured it would be pointless to withhold the fact from the man since he seemed to already know.

"I was on break, sitting out by the dumpster smoking a cancer stick, when I heard the shots."

"Shots? You mean there was more than one?"

"Yeah, it was like BAM! And then BAM! Just like that. So I walked out to the street and saw this dog, that one there, come hauling ass down to Lighthouse like he was being chased by a lion or something. Right after that I saw this yellow truck haul ass from there, heading up toward Pebble Beach."

"Where did this happen?" As he asked, Barker patted his leg. A seemingly innocent gesture, yet the dogs reacted to it as if he had ordered them to present arms. They came to attention, formed an almost double line, and stared at Barker as if awaiting instructions. The old man watched for a moment, amazed by the creature's response to such a simple signal. Finally he looked back at the man with the hard-edged face and bright green eyes as if shaking himself from a dream.

"It happened up at the park, man. Just, like, three blocks up that way." He told Barker. "The truck is, like, long gone though. Better just to bury your dead and move on." But, as the man realized when he finished talking, Barker had already moved on. He had gone to the park.

An hour earlier, Barker had been wandering the streets a block or two above Lighthouse Avenue. It had been an easygoing morning. The dogs had followed him most of the day, but slowly drifted off in search of their own adventures, leaving Barker alone to make his way up toward the Presidio and the Defense Language Institute. D.L.I., having survived the military cut-backs which put the axe to nearby Fort Ord many years ago, lay on a large chunk of grassy land overlooking the bay. There were quite a few spots where a person could sneak in, unseen, and find a great view of the Peninsula awaiting them. Barker, holding a thermos filled with Earl Grey tea, had just such an afternoon in mind. That is, until he heard the screech of brakes and saw one of his companions, the tiny Shiatsu named Zero, cock his ears and set off for Lighthouse Avenue as if he'd suddenly remembered an important business meeting. Barker decided to follow the small dog, only to see Dangler (who'd been raiding a nearby trash can) also making his way to the thoroughfare which bridged Monterey to Pacific Grove. Something had alerted the dogs and this worried Barker. He discovered the fate of Davis minutes later.

The old hippy had been a little off, for the park was six blocks up the street and not three. Barker considered the speed in which Davis must have utilized in order to flee the area. The olfactory senses in a canine, being so much stronger than humans, undoubtedly brought him to the park. For dogs, like most animals, can smell food from a great distance. But something had gone terribly awry and Davis fled, with a mortal wound, to his inevitable death.

A roadway surrounded the park on all sides, though to Barker it seemed more like a grassy field than anything else. Modern suburban homes encompassed the property opposite the road.