He held up a sheaf of official looking paper, skipped through a few parts with his index finger, and read out loud, “…here…’for exotic specimen, including, but not limited to, lions, lionesses. Both of ’em. In fact, both male and female for any other species named or unnamed, from henceforth within. Tigers. Cheetas. Any other kind of big cat. One big rhino. A barn full of monkeys.’”

As Herschell read on, Frank knew the cops had been through the hospital, had seen everything. They had already taken a good long look at all of the animals. They’d been in the back room. They’d been through his stuff. And just like that, Olaf brought Frank’s shotgun up from behind him, bringing it up to that peculiarly soft stretch of skin up behind his ear, between his neck muscles and the back of the jawbone. The sharp coldness of the barrel hit his skin back there, strangely gentle, as Olaf’s voice said, “And what the living fuck are you doing with a loaded firearm?”

Frank lifted his arms and spread his fingers wide. “Easy. Easy does it. I’m no criminal.”

“Where you from, Mr. Winchester?” Herschell asked. Olaf pulled the shotgun back. But he remained behind Frank.

“I was born in East Texas. My mom and me, we lived all over the Midwest, we—”

“Where you working now, dipshit,” Olaf said.

“Ohio. Cleveland.”

“Bullshit,” Herschell said. “You seem a little on the slow side, so let me help you understand just how deep the shit is that you have just found yourself in. One,” Herschell counted on his fingers, just to help Frank comprehend. “You got fugitive written all over you. Here you are, no identification, no nothing. You ain’t from Cleveland, I’d bet my badge on that. Two. You seem to be running this vet hospital, but I’ll be damned if I see any of your degrees or certificates or any other crap like that anywhere around. Even the head rat catcher over at the Dole sugar plant has got a certificate of somesuch. What do you got? Fuck all, that’s what. But for whatever reason, you seem to be living here. And treating patients, I might add. Of course, from what I can tell, you ain’t too good at your job. Last I heard, you killed a poor housecat. And that brings us to three and these animals here.” Herschell tapped the cages with the official documents. “This is California, not some jungle village in deepest, darkest Africa.” He shook his head. “You’re in some serious trouble here and you’re just too goddamn dumb to know it.”

Frank didn’t say anything. Herschell seemed disappointed.

“Fine. Fine. Here’s what’s gonna happen,” Herschell said. “We’re gonna take you down to the station, take a pretty picture. Then we’re gonna send that picture out all over the country and I’d be willing to bet somebody, somewhere has a big time hard-on for you.”

Olaf grabbed Frank’s arms and Frank heard the distinct clicking and muted jangling of handcuffs in the small of his back. Real ones this time, not the plastic ones the quiet gentlemen used. There would be no breaking these with a screwdriver.

As if sensing the sudden tension in Frank’s arm muscles, Olaf said, “Give me any trouble and them cats’ll be licking your brains off the floor.” The handcuffs locked into place like a pit bull’s jaws.

* * * * *

They’d gotten Frank out to the cruiser and were just about to lock him in the backseat when Sturm’s pickup bounced into the parking lot in a storm of dust. Herschell and Olaf exchanged glances.

Sturm ambled up like he was being social after church, bare-chested except for the wide swath of bandages strapped around his upper torso. The milky skin on his shoulders had started to glow red in the relentless sun. He had his black cowboy hat squarely over his bald head and the Iron Mistress swung at his hip. “Howdy boys. No trouble with my employee, I hope.”

Herschell nodded. “I’m afraid so. This man has no ID, no license to practice veterinary medicine in California, no nothing. But we got all these animals, none of ’em native to this state, supposedly under his supposed care. Then there’s the animal that got loose. Tiger, I believe. Operation of a firearm on a public street is a violation of County Code 43 and is punishable by fine of not less than three hundred dollars and not more than six hundred dollars,” Herschell recited in a flat, dull voice. “We’ll have to take him down to Redding for this,” he added and nodded at Frank. “I’d hate to think he was taking advantage of us. For the safety of the community, we’re gonna take him in, see if we can’t find out who he really is.”

“Can’t be too careful in these uncertain times,” Olaf said.

“Oh hell no. Can’t be too careful whatsoever,” Sturm said. “And these are unfuckingcertain times, that’s for goddamned sure. This man is an extremely valuable employee. I need his help. I need his help right now, today, in fact. And I’d hate to be inconvenienced in any way. You boys take him down to Redding, it might take a while to clear his name. I don’t have that kind of time.” Sturm tapped his head.

“I can appreciate that, Mr. Sturm,” Herschell said. “But the fact is, we got ourselves plenty of violations happening here. We don’t have a choice in the matter.”

“Shit.” Sturm rapped his knuckles across the hood. “This doesn’t have anything to do with that permit I forgot to file, does it?”

“It might,” Herschell said.

Sturm pulled a roll of cash bundled in a thick rubber band from his Carhart overalls. “Knew I forgot something last week. This permit we’re talking about, I’ll need it for the meeting of a gun club. How much was it again?”

Herschell eyed the roll. “Normally, we’d be talking a couple hundred. But this, this is different. These conditions, the large number of animals…I’d say we’re looking at somewhere around four hundred, at least. Plus the fine of six hundred.”

Sturm’s fingers pinched off a thick stack of twenties. “Listen, I appreciate your willingness to take care of business out here. I’d hate to drag this downtown. Let’s just take care of all them damn fines, citations, levies, taxes, and whatever else shit you want to charge right here and now.”

Herschell took the cash and Olaf popped the handcuffs open. Frank rubbed his wrists and backed slowly towards the hospital. Somebody in the town, most likely the woman from the gas station, had sicced the cops on him.

Out in the petrified mud, past the back end of the vehicles, Herschell said quietly, “You sure about this, Mr. Sturm? I been in law enforcement going on thirty years now. I don’t need a goddamn neon sign to tell me someone is bad news. And this boy is bad news, I’m telling you.”

“He’ll be fine,” Sturm said. “I trust him.”

Herschell shrugged. “Because of your…situation. So be it. That permit you just filed, that’ll cover the next few weeks. You need anything, you let us know. Take care of yourself. You got our prayers.” Herschell and Olaf solemnly climbed into the cruiser and shut the doors. Sturm waved. The cruiser slowly lumbered off across the parking lot and down the street towards the center of town.

Sturm clapped his hands together and blew past Frank. “How’re my girls?”

DAY TWENTY-ONE

Sturm had Pine plant dynamite in a ditch tunnel under the highway for a roadblock. The thing that struck Frank was that there wasn’t really a need to do much of anything to the highway. There was no traffic. There was nobody. Just the fields, a few sheep, the sun, and the men running around like ants building some kind of awful trap for a fat, unsuspecting bug.

But Sturm had a plan, and he didn’t want any unexpected visitors during the hunts. He explained how it worked. If the town was expecting you, you were given a set of instructions. Instead of just taking the highway into town, you went back up the highway a ways until you came to a gate, secured with a heavy chain and combination lock. Beyond the gate was a road that looked like the parallel tracks of a dirt railroad through deep grass. It led around a swamp thick with cattails, up a little valley, and back down to the highway into town.