Isle of Dogs (15 page)

“The base unit does ring, actually, as you so wisely pointed out yesterday,” Pony reminded the First Lady, although she had never pointed out anything to him directly in all the terms he had worked for the Crimm family.

A solution was at hand, but the same problem persisted: Inmates were not allowed to have the First Family’s private phone number. So if the base unit were to be located, a member of the First Family would have to dial the number herself, and this was strictly against protocol. The task fell into the job description of personal or administrative assistants, or grade sixes, and at this early hour, no grade sixes were at work yet.

The breakfast table turned into a tableau of the First Family’s females frozen in indecision, except for Regina, who was still piling food on her plate and unmindful of protocols.

“Here.” She stuck out her hand. “Give it to me, Pony.”

He came around behind her and carefully set the phone by her placemat, giving her plenty of body space as if he were serving a flaming dessert. She stabbed out the secret number with honey-coated fingers and immediately the base unit rang under Regina’s wadded-up housecoat on top of the mahogany sideboard.

“Hello?” Regina said into the phone, making sure she was the one who was calling. “Hello?” she tried again, crossing
pajama-covered legs that reminded Pony of felt-covered tree stumps wearing filthy furry slippers. “Maybe I should sign on with the EPU.” She returned the phone to Pony. “I’m bored to death of official duties.”

“You couldn’t be assigned to us.” The First Lady was opposed to the idea and intended to discourage her daughter. “Unless you had yet another EPU trooper assigned to protect you while you were protecting your sisters, Papa, and me.”

“Show me that in the Code of Virginia,” Regina argued. “Bet it’s not in there.”

“If I may speak,” Pony spoke up as he wiped off the phone and returned it to the base unit. “It’s not in there—not anywhere in any section of the Code about the First Family needing to protect itself and be protected at the same time.”

“Maybe you can discuss it with that handsome Trooper Brazil, and I’ll let him be the one who talks you out of it,” the First Lady said to Regina. “Being a trooper is very dangerous and unrewarding, and speaking of troopers, did any of you happen to read Trooper Truth this morning?”

“We just got up,” Constance reminded her mother.

“Well, he told the most interesting and mysterious story about who shot J.R.”

“Why’s he writing about
Dallas
?” Faith puzzled. “That’s been off the air forever.”

“This is a different J.R.,” the First Lady informed her daughters. “But it’s a shame
Dallas
was canceled. Your papa never got over it and was just furious when the network took that show off the air. You know, there’s nothing good on TV anymore except for the shopping channel.”

A W
ORD
A
BOUT
E
ATING
E
AGLES

by Trooper Truth

Quite possibly, a young man the Jamestown archaeologists nicknamed J.R. was America’s first white-on-white homicide—loosely speaking, since America wasn’t called America back when Jamestown was settled.

But if you visit the excavation site and take a look at the fiberglass cast of J.R.’s skeleton, you can’t help but be moved by the plight of a young man dying so far from home and then lying in hard Virginia clay for four centuries before a trowel discovered the stain of his unmarked grave. J.R., by the way, means Jamestown Rediscovery and is the prefix given to every artifact and feature found on the site, which includes graves and the dead people in them. We don’t know who shot J.R. At this writing, we aren’t even sure who J.R. is.

But through science, J.R. has managed to tell us a thing or two. Results from radio-carbon dating confirm that he died in 1607, possibly just months after the first settlers arrived at Jamestown, so we can assume he was one of the 108 English men and boys who sailed from the Isle of Dogs and got stalled in the Thames. Anthropology pinpoints that he was a five-foot-five robust male with a rounded chin and small jaw, between the ages of seventeen and twenty-five, had no signs of arthritis and relatively good teeth, indicating his diet did not include sugar. Tests for lead, strontium, and oxygen isotopes
show that he grew up in the United Kingdom, possibly in southwest London or Wales.

J.R. was fatally wounded in the leg with a sixty-caliber musket ball and twenty-some shot, which back in those days would be considered a combat load. Forensic testing shows the matchlock rifle that killed him was fired from too far away for the injury to have been self-inflicted. He bled to death quickly and was buried without a shroud in a hexagonal-shaped coffin with his feet turned to the east, according to proper Christian tradition.

If J.R. was, in fact, shot by another settler, and I have a feeling he was, then that leads to theories about motive, which can easily be inferred from historical documentation. A stroll through centuries-old writings and a subsequent commingling of words with excavated artifacts and bones could lead to the following possibilities for why J.R. might have been murdered.

Perhaps he was involved in political intrigue or domestic difficulties, or didn’t work and play well with others, or was a thief, or took more than his share of food. Maybe he engaged in cannibalism, like a later settler who was executed after being caught salting down his dead wife. Or perhaps J.R. squabbled with a Natural who somehow got hold of a firearm and figured out how to use it. Or more likely, J.R. got into an altercation with another armed settler who decided the best place to shoot him was in the leg because maybe J.R. was wearing a helmet and upper-body armor at the time. Maybe the settler shot him after discovering that J.R. was spying for the Spanish or was a pirate.

I suspect J.R. was a spy or a pirate or both. Whatever the truth really is, J.R.’s death was not a pleasant one, because quite likely, he was conscious long enough to know he was dying. I envision him lying inside the fort and slipping into shock as he watched himself bleed to death from a severed artery behind his knee, and I can imagine the uproar inside the fort as settlers scurried about with rags and river water and whatever medicinal aids they could muster. Perhaps they were trying to comfort J.R. or perhaps everyone was fighting and shouting and questioning the shooter.

Who knows? But as you imagine this tragic drama, my
faithful readers, then certainly you must be asking the same glaring question that I am: Why is there no mention of J.R.’s death in John Smith’s writings? Why, to date, is there no reference found in
any
record of a young first settler being shot to death, either by accident or on purpose?

It just goes to show that history is nothing more than what certain people decide that future generations ought to know. I suppose when John Smith was writing his accounts and telling tales for the benefit of King James and people back home, Smith was savvy and shrewd enough to figure that financial backers and prospective settlers might be a bit turned off to hear that people in Jamestown were mutinous, murderous, mad from drinking bad water, constantly under siege by the Naturals, and forced by starvation to eat snakes, turtles, and at least one eagle, based on the trash the settlers left behind.

The beginning of America wasn’t exciting, fun, honorable, or even patriotic, but could certainly serve as a model for a reality television show that would make
Survivor
seem like
Fantasy Island.
And sadly, nothing has changed much. Just look at the recent, sadistic murder of Trish Thrash! We don’t know who killed her, either, but I ask you, my community-minded readers, to please e-mail me if you happen to have known Trish or knew anything about her life, including her hobbies, interests, what she read, if she used the Internet, and if she might have mentioned anything or anyone new in her life of late.

Be careful out there!

 Governor Crimm had been studying the latest Trooper Truth printout for an entire hour, and was fascinated, appalled, and disgusted by it. He repeatedly moved his magnifying glass over every word as Major Trader briefed him on matters of state and offered him a homemade chocolate-covered cherry.

“General Assembly will start up before we know it,” Trader was saying. “And we’re simply not prepared.”

“You always say that,” the governor replied as he absently ate the candy. “Who did shoot J.R., anyway? Has anybody pressed the archaeologists about this? And if not, why not? How do you think it makes us look if we can’t solve a crime that was committed four hundred years ago and was certainly witnessed? I want you to call Jamestown and demand that the J.R. case be solved immediately, and we’ll issue a big press release and show the citizens of Virginia that I will not tolerate crime.”

“
Juvenile
crime,” Trader added a helpful spin.

“Yes, yes,” the governor agreed.

“And I think we can safely suggest he was shot by a pirate—or it might be in our best interest to claim as much, at any rate,” Trader added. “We could say it was any pirate—doesn’t matter, don’t you see? All pirates were bad then and
are bad now, so it doesn’t make any difference whatsoever if we propose that J.R. wandered outside the fort to get a bucket of water from the river, and all of a sudden he spied a Spanish ship flying a Jolly Roger flag, and next thing he was shot.”

“I thought we were avoiding drawing attention to our pirate problems.”

“Highway pirates are another matter,” Trader replied as he gloated over his secret pirate activities that would soon enough make him rich from booty.

Crimm stopped the magnifying glass on the word
cannibal.
“Imagine some settler salting down his dead wife and eating her,” he said in revulsion as he envisioned himself dying of starvation, only to discover his voluptuous wife had passed away.

He thought of her nude, fleshy body and wondered how anybody could eat his wife without at least cooking her first, but he supposed if he cooked Maude, the other settlers would see the smoke and smell the odor of roasting human flesh and would hang him from a tree. Oh, what a hideous scenario, and the governor’s submarine lurched and banged into something, sending a painful jolt through his hollow organs.

“That was a capital crime back then,” Trader observed as if he were reading Crimm’s mind. “The tour guides at Jamestown will tell you that anyone caught eating his wife or anybody else was immediately dragged off and hanged. Then they’d bury him very quickly and in a secret location so another settler didn’t salt and eat him, too.”

“I’m wondering if cannibalism is still a capital crime, because if it isn’t, it ought to be.” Crimm’s submarine lurched more violently.

“It depends on the circumstances,” Trader replied as he imagined his plump, nagging wife and wondered if he could ever be famished enough to consider, even for a moment, eating her, assuming she died unexpectedly and nobody else noticed that she had vanished. “For example, according to state code, there would have to be another serious crime involved,” Trader explained. “If the man murdered her first and perhaps included a rape or robbery and then ate her—now that would be a capital offense and he would get lethal injection, unless you blocked the execution or granted clemency.”

“I never block executions or grant clemency,” the governor impatiently replied as his lens strayed over the printed essay and another shockwave rolled through him. “In fact, I want you to send out a press release and announce that anyone who engages in cannibalism will pay the supreme price, assuming those other crimes are included. I don’t believe we’ve ever addressed cannibalism, and it’s high time we did. Indeed, let’s draft a bill and put it before this next General Assembly.”

Trader was making notes with a pencil, which was his habit because he often found the need to erase whatever he had written.

“Maybe we should say that J.R. was caught in the act of cannibalism and was executed by a firing squad. How about that?” The governor peered up and gave Trader a magnified rheumy eye that was cloudy and bloodshot and getting glassy.

“It’s not my understanding that shooting someone in the leg was a preferred form of execution,” Trader pointed out. “I don’t think the citizens would buy it.”

“Of course they would. Everybody knows that guns back then were very unreliable. Now, let’s talk about something else.”

“Yes, on to other matters,” Trader said, flipping a page in his notepad. “What do you want to do about this dentist who’s being held hostage on Tangier Island? I’m sure you saw the newspaper this morning or heard the news, or did you?”

“Not yet.” The governor groaned and clutched his bloated gut.

“Well, apparently the Reedville police talked to a reporter, and unfortunately, the word is out that this dentist’s life could be in danger because the Tangierians are upset about VASCAR. I recommend we suspend our VASCAR initiatives immediately until the matter is peacefully resolved. I can tell you that I, for one, warned Superintendent Hammer about the consequences should the state police start painting speed traps. But of course, she didn’t listen, as usual.”

“It was her idea?” The governor was confused and light-headed.

“Of course it was her idea, Governor. Don’t you remember when you and I discussed it the other day, I told you this was her latest act of poor judgment and you said, ‘Well, good.
Then if it causes a stink, make sure she gets the blame and not me.’ So I said, ‘Good enough, that’s what will happen.’ ”

“Did she ever find her dog?” the governor inquired as he cleaned his magnifying glass with a special cloth and prayed his latest submarine attack would subside.

“It’s theorized that one of her political enemies stole it,” Trader gravely replied.

“What a shame she has so many people who strongly dislike her,” Crimm said as he sat very still and the color drained from his face. “I had no idea when I appointed her that she would become such a hot potato. Why don’t you ring her up and she and I will have a little chat? But not right now.”

“I strongly recommend against that, Governor—not now or later,” Trader was quick to suggest. “You don’t want to be tarred with the same brush. She’s a political embarrassment, and the more you distance yourself from her, the better.”

“Well, I do feel bad about her little dog. I hope she got my sympathy note.”

“I made sure she did,” Trader lied as he thought of that note and numerous other communications to her that he had intercepted or blocked.

“You know, if something happened to Frisky,” the governor wistfully went on with a gasp, “I’d never be the same, nor would Maude or the girls. What a dear, loyal friend Frisky is, and thank the good Lord I have EPU to make sure nobody nabs him for ransom money or to get back at me for some decision that is unpopular.”

“Your decisions are never unpopular,” Trader said emphatically. “At least not the ones that are your fault.”

“Well, I’m sure I’ll be blamed for the recent hate crime,” Crimm supposed as his submarine plunged into foul waters.

“I strongly advise that we indicate that the Thrash murder is connected to Moses Custer’s case, and therefore it’s Hammer’s fault that neither of the cases has been solved,” Trader suggested with confidence and delight. “Maybe we can figure out a tie-in with J.R. being murdered by a pirate, while we’re at it, and plant the notion in the public’s mind that Hammer is to blame for that case being unsolved, as well.”

The governor shot up from his chair and almost fell over as his submarine slammed precariously into submerged objects.

“Leave!” he ordered Trader, lurching and gasping. “I can’t think about pirates right now!”

P
OSSUM
could and was. He had been thinking about pirates ever since reading Trooper Truth early this morning. Possum was watching TV and pondering a very obvious failing on the road dogs’ part that he excitedly believed he could use to manipulate Smoke and hopefully save Popeye.

Every self-respecting pirate from centuries past understood the necessity of flying flags from their masts to communicate with those they preyed upon. Raising the skull and crossbones, popularly known as the Jolly Roger, informed the soon-to-be-plundered ship that it had better surrender or else. If the ship ignored the fluttering black-and-white grinning death’s head, this was followed by a red flag indicating the
or else
was imminent. If the ship continued to sail about its business, then cannon fire and other violence followed.

Modern pirates seemed to have forgotten the courtesy of flags. These days, when a crew of pirates roar up in a speedboat to overtake a ship or yacht, there is no warning whatsoever before mortars and machine guns open fire. Pirates have become a very cruel, bloody, shameful species of seafaring outlaws who don’t believe in giving anyone a chance and are mostly interested in canned goods, electronics, carpets, designer clothes, tobacco, and more to the point, the drugs that hopefully are being smuggled aboard the hijacked vessel. If drugs are part of the booty, the victimized sailors who survive do not report the incident to the authorities.

Highway pirates should return to the courtesy of flags, Possum thought as he perched on his bed with the lamp off inside his tiny RV room that would have looked out over scraggly pine trees in back of the vacant lot if he didn’t keep the curtains tightly taped shut. He never missed a rerun of
Bonanza
and constantly fantasized that he had a father like Ben Cartwright and brothers like Little Joe and Hoss. He imagined riding a fine horse through the burning map of the Ponderosa while that stirring theme of strumming guitars and drums galloped through his head.

“Dun
daw daw
dun
daw daw
dun
daw daw
dun
daw
daw DAW
. . .
!”

Just yesterday afternoon he had watched his favorite rerun—the one in which Little Joe’s girl gets kidnapped by a carnival and is tied up in the fat lady’s closet, several dressing rooms down from the Beautiful Girls of Egypt and the bearded lady. Little Joe convinces Hercules to help him, and they beat up the bad guys, knock the knife out of one bad guy’s hand before he stabs the fat lady, and then Little Joe’s girl kisses him at the end. Oh, how Possum loved to watch Little Joe swaggering off with his cowboy hat pulled low and that big gunbelt with its ivory-handled six-shooter slung from his hips.

Oh, what Possum wouldn’t give to walk out of his cheap, sour-smelling room and find Ben, Little Joe, and Hoss waiting for him instead of Smoke, the other road dogs, and that bizarre girl Unique, when she happened by the RV, which was increasingly less often. Sometimes a tear slid down Possum’s face, and he had to glaze himself over when it was time to turn off the TV and emerge from the kinder world he lived in during the day while the other dogs slept off hangovers and late nights of meanness. Possum had never hurt anybody before Smoke stole him away from the ATM machine, and now look at the mess Possum was in.

He had shot that poor truck driver who was minding his own business in his truck, waiting to sell a load of pumpkins when the Farmers’ Market opened in the morning. Possum was afraid to sleep ever again, so sure he was that he would have nightmares about what he had done to Moses Custer and all those pumpkins they hauled over to the Deep Water Terminal and dumped into the James River.

For days, the news had run stories about thousands of pumpkins floating along and getting hung up on rocks. Of course, it didn’t take the Richmond police long to put two and two together and deduce that the floating pumpkins might be connected to the ones that had filled the stolen Peterbilt. Possum sure hoped Mr. Custer didn’t die or end up a cripple. Possum also dimly realized that the reason Smoke had made him the trigger man was so that Possum could never leave the road dogs without going to jail or maybe even death row. He
wished he could send Trooper Truth an e-mail and beg the trooper to save him and Popeye, but what if Trooper Truth turned him in to the police? Popeye might end up in the pound and Possum for sure would end up in juvenile detention with people just as bad as Smoke.

It was dark and quiet as Possum sat on his bed petting Pop-eye and thinking about a way to convince Smoke to fly a flag from the RV and the Land Cruiser. Why wouldn’t Smoke go along with it as long as Possum could figure out how to make him think the flag somehow was his own idea and a good one? The Jolly Roger might be too obvious, Possum considered in the dark, and Smoke probably wouldn’t know what it was. Possum went over to the computer, intending to check Captain Bonny’s website to see if the pirate had his own colors, and if so, what were they and how did he display them?