Chapter 12

TWELVE

Angelo

Toma and I get out of the car on the dirt road at the top of the hill. The goat herder waits for us. I take a moment to study the scene.

The campsite doesn't look much different from the first time I visited it except for the tents that are more tattered now. The torn canvas has long since faded to a bleak, colorless white that's brown from layers of dirt. The strips in front of the openings flap in the icy wind. The cold ashes of a fire lie next to the stream. The shack that's slapped together with bits and pieces of pressed wood and corrugated iron sits askew on the embankment. The snow has melted, exposing the trampled, muddy mess underneath. Chickens cluck as they waddle up and down the stream, occasionally stopping to bury their beaks in the soil and pull out a wiggling worm that they gobble down greedily.

The goat herder climbs down the slope, his rubber boots sinking into the mud. Toma follows behind while I tail him. My cousin utters a curse as mud splatters his pants.

The herder stops and points at the hill behind the stream. "Over there, sir. That's where I last saw them goats. The ol' man ain't one for letting them run so far. All scattered over the grassland they are." He spits on the ground. "Ran straight into paid land territory. No man can get his hand on them goats without trespassin' now. That's when I knew somethin' was amiss."

The herder waits for me to pass. I slide down the slope, slipping in the slush. Even before I reach the shack, I hear the buzzing of flies. The stench is suffocating. It smells of human excretion and decay. Toma pulls the decorative handkerchief from the breast pocket of his jacket and covers his nose.

The rusted hinges protest as I flatten my palm on the chipboard and push the door open. The interior is dark, the cloth in front of the window pulled closed. The wedge of gray daylight that falls through the door cuts a triangle over the gras mat on the ground. In the corner lies a mattress. On it, underneath a threadbare blanket, the emaciated shape of a body is visible. It's more like a sack of bones than a body. His face is turned to the wall. White tuffs of hair cling to the skull in patches. Bundles of the woolly clots cover the pillow like pincushions of fungus.

Toma retches. He runs to the circle of rocks forming a fire pit, folds double, and empties his stomach on the ground.

I let the door swing shut.

There's nothing I can do here.

I remain on that spot in the pungent air, dissecting my feelings for a shred of compassion and finding nothing.

A raucous noise rises up in the air. Farther up the stream, a cock chases the hens. They stretch their wings and protest loudly as they flee.

Toma straightens and wipes his mouth on the handkerchief. His lips are pale, and his skin has a greenish tint.

I head back toward the herder who observes us quietly.

"What about them goats, sir?" he asks when I reach him.

I slap a few bills in his hand. "I'll handle it."

Toma scurries up the hill. He slips and slides back down. Finally, he resorts to using his hands to find purchase in the mud. I get into the car as he drags himself out of that stink hole like a chimpanzee on all fours. When he reaches the passenger side, I throw a packet of wet wipes through the window. He catches it in mid-air, looking mildly embarrassed.

While he wipes his hands clean, I dial the emergency service and report the death. I'll stick around for a couple of days until the police report has been filed and all the logistics are wrapped up. The coroner will request an autopsy to determine the cause of death before issuing the death certificate.

I'm ending the call when Toma flops down on the passenger seat, leans his head on the backrest, and breathes through an open mouth.

"Find out who the farmer is," I say as I start the engine. "Get hold of him, and tell him I'll send someone to get the goats off his property. I'll pay grazing fees for a month. That should cover it."

He winds down the window and wipes a hand over his sweaty brow. "What are you going to do with all those fucking goats?" A shudder runs over his body. "And those chickens?" Mumbling to himself, he adds, "I never knew chickens were so fucking ugly."

I chuckle. "Chickens aren't ugly."

He shoots me an incredulous look.

"I'm going to sell them," I say. "The money should go to the kids." Not that they need it, but it's the gesture that matters.

"Fuck." He lifts his head and blinks. "For how long do you think he's been dead?"

"A week or so."

"Fuck," he says again. "What do you think he died from?"

"It could've been a number of things—heart attack, stroke, infection, pneumonia, food poisoning… He could've fallen and broken a bone that eventually immobilized him."

He ponders that in silence. After a beat, he says, "I don't want to die like that. Fuck, man."

"You won't." My tone is dry. "You'll never live like a hermit in a shack with a herd of goats and a flock of chickens."

He takes a packet of cigarettes from his pocket.

"Don't smoke in my car."

He puts away the smokes with a pout.

I let him sulk for a while before I say, "You're smoking now?"

"Been a while."

I raise a brow. "Wedding nerves?"

He scoffs.

"How are the arrangements coming along?" I ask.

"Dunno." He shrugs. "Her family is handling everything."

I grip his shoulder. "You okay?"

For a fleeting moment, something like guilt flashes in his eyes, but he schools his features before I can get an accurate read on him.

"Yeah," he says, pursing his lips. "I'm fine."

I put my hand back on the wheel, navigating the narrow road that zigzags down the mountain.

Our conversation falls quiet. Toma stares through the windscreen with a brooding expression for the rest of the way. It's not until I reach home that a message from my contact in the force comes through on my phone.

It's done. Lieutenant Lavigne is on his way.