The China Dogs (9 page)

Most of the facial flesh has been chewed off. Only a few scraps of skin remain on arm bones pulped by powerful teeth. Several fingers are missing. All internal organs and most of the muscles and flesh of the thighs are gone.

It's a sight too horrible to even comment on. Ghost eases past the body and walks deeper into the forest. He feels a need to get a different perspective on what happened. Weigh up the location.

The way he sees it, the body is just off a small shield-shaped green, right out on the eastern corner of the course, teetering over the waters of the bay and maybe thirty feet into a big clump of mangroves. Behind that there's a steep drop to the boats in the marina. Down there are some parking areas and a cluster of fishing chalets. Man and dog most likely have come by vehicle, across the Rickenbacker like he did.

While Ghost is sizing things up Stockman has perfected his balancing act and is now shooting video from a small camera. The M.E. adds commentary notes as he steps precariously around the layers of dense roots and human remains. “White male of average height and build, late forties or fifties, judging by the condition of his gums and teeth, a nonsmoker but heavy coffee drinker.”

Ghost can hear the comments as he picks his way back over the tangle of ankle-breaking branches and is rewarded by finding a wallet. He searches through it then shouts to the M.E. “Gerry, our man is fifty-five-year-old Matt Wood from Grand Avenue, over near Peacock Park. He was a father and grandfather.” He takes out a creased photograph from the centerfold. “Two beautiful little girls who will never be pictured sitting on grandpa's knee again.” He looks at another one. It shows a sun-tanned, white-haired man and his plump blond wife playing golf on the very course where his body has been found.

Ghost puts the pictures back and walks on. At the edge of the copse he finds yellow flowering gorse and shreds of a green woolen jumper. Just beyond that, deep in a tangle of mangrove roots, he comes across several dimpled balls, all gray and weathered, long lost, not recent. He turns around and guesses the dog that killed him had been in a thicket a few yards away.

Then he spots it.

Grooves in the soil.

“There are drag marks starting from over here,” he shouts to the M.E. “I can see where the vic's heels have scuffed roots, leading your way.”

Stockman videos the lieutenant as he turns and walks toward him.

Ghost continues his commentary. “Look, there's blood on the coiled roots, probably from the victim's hands as he tried to grab something and get away from the animal.” He treads carefully, anxious not to trample evidence into the ground. “And there's a lot of dried blood just here. Spatter and spill on the fallen leaves.” He crouches to get a better look. “Mangroves lose leaves all year round. We're lucky the drips didn't hit the soil and just disappear.”

“Somehow I don't feel lucky,” says the M.E. from behind the lens. “Lucky would be if I'd hit a sixty-eight out there and was now in the clubhouse enjoying breakfast.”

“Lucky would be if I were still in bed, but I'm not. I think this is where the dog lost its grip as it dragged him.” He visualizes the scene. “It then turned back at this spot and locked its jaws on him again.”

“Would explain the change of spatter,” concurs Stockman. “I hate mangroves.”

Ghost looks up and across the forest. “There's a whole mix in here, red, black, and white. I can never remember exactly which is which.”

The M.E. finishes videoing and points. “
Avicennia germinans
, those are the black ones with the snorkel roots that are giving us all the problems. Over there are the reds—the
rhizophora mangle,
and on the other side you have the whites
,
the
laguncularia racemosa
. It's unusual to get them together like this.”

“There you go, you got lucky again.” Ghost looks down at the corpse. “Given he isn't dressed in golf gear and that no one has reported a golfer who didn't come in from a day on the links, I think we can presume that Mr. Wood here is the owner of the dog that killed the girl on the beach.”

“Go on.”

“Well, I guess he came out yesterday, to book a round, maybe have a drink in the clubhouse, and brought the dog with him. When he went back to his vehicle, he took it for a walk. While he was doing that, the animal turned on him and killed him. It then ran from here down to the beach, which is what, three miles away?”

Stockman looks across to the distant lighthouse at Bill Baggs. “Less. From here, a little over two.”

“Death of Kathy Morgan was about five
P.M.
Would you place this TOD around there, maybe thirty minutes or an hour earlier?”

The M.E. looks through a swirl of flies at the bloodred remains. “There's not a lot to go on, but I guess from the shreds of organs and decomposition of the main torso, you're in the ballpark.” He looks again at the dried remains. “Could be earlier too. Maybe even by a couple of hours.”

“Thanks.” Ghost walks out of the forest and heads back to his Dodge. He's willing to bet a year's salary that there's an SUV or station wagon registered in Wood's name and parked at the clubhouse.

27

The White House, Washington DC

T
he long flight back on Air Force One and stressful days in Beijing leave Clint Molton jet-lagged and bad-tempered.

He showers and changes clothes, then heads straight to the Oval Office to tackle a desk groaning with work.

Don Jackson is the first through his door.

He's carrying a stack of files and a mood as black as the President's. “'Morning, sir. I've spent the last hour trying to rub China off the world map on my office wall. Like a nasty stain, it just won't go away.”

Molton huffs out a laugh. “What's the latest on this dog nonsense in Miami?”

“The forensic vet working the case is pretty sure it's just a wild dog—”

“Rabies?”

“She thinks not but she's asked for extra tests, in case there's a mutation of the strain.”

“Let's hope that isn't the case. How old was the girl?”

“Seventeen.”

He shuts his eyes for a second. He can't help but think about his own children and how the parents of the dead girl must now feel. “Remind me, what kind of dog we talking about?”

“Crossbreed. Part pit bull, which kind of explains the aggression.” He opens one of his files and slides over prints of the dead dog. “The animal is more muscular than massive, but the report I have says it took five shots before a ranger could put it down.”

“Five?” Molton widens his eyes in surprise. “So if it's not rabies, then what's the explanation for this dog going almost supernaturally vicious?”

“Vet still hasn't finished her report—could be anything from the heat to something that it ate.” This seems the right moment to add the latest bad news he'd been advised of. “I got a call a few moments ago from my office. The coroner has turned out another bite-related death in Miami, he thinks it's the dog owner.”

“Jeez.” The President shakes his head. “Is all this normal, Don? I mean, are there always dog attacks like this and we just don't notice them? Or do we have to start taking Zhang's threats seriously?”

Jackson has been asking the same questions. “Two deaths but it looks like only one dog was involved, so it could easily be coincidence, sir. I think we shouldn't get alarmed. Statistics show there are about five million dog bites a year in America, with a thousand people a day needing some form of emergency care.”

Molton is shocked. “That many, really?”

“Afraid so.” He passes over another sheet. “A quick data scan that we did in the office shows most bad attacks always come from pit bulls, rottweilers, and wolf hybrids. It was a kind of pit-cross that was responsible for the beach death and maybe this latest one of the owner, so I don't see any reason to get overconcerned. That said, I'm having the analysts do a nationwide sweep to see if there have been any recent increases.”

“Sounds like a good idea. Let me know what they come up with and keep me apprised of what that vet says.” He hands back the papers the NIA director gave him and gestures to the stacks of work around him. “I'd like to talk more about this but I'm kind of snowed in, so let's move on. I'm hoping we can quickly put all this nonsense behind us.”

28

Crandon Golf Club, Miami

P
arked in a bay near the clubhouse is a white, new edition Ford Explorer that's covered in more dust than all the other vehicles around it. It's a sure sign that it's been there for at least a day.

Ghost wipes a hand over the dirt and looks through the back window of the SUV. There's a scuffed-up tartan blanket and a well-chewed rubber bone inside. A pull at a door handle tells him it's locked. He wipes the passenger window and presses close to the glass. There's an envelope on the passenger seat, waiting to be posted to a Mr. Adam Wood over at Immokalee. He guesses it's a card of some kind for the dead man's brother or son.

The lieutenant walks inside the clubhouse and asks some local cops where he can find the manager. Carlton Henderson is just a few feet away and overhears them talking. “Can I help you?”

Ghost shows his ID to the smart-suited, gray-haired man. “Miami Homicide. Do you have a Matt Wood on your membership roll?”

Henderson stares at the picture a moment before replying. “We do. Mr. Wood is one of our longest-serving members and is a very good golfer.” He looks up from the picture to the real detective and realizes that the news is bad. “Is he the man found on the course?”

“Maybe. Was he here yesterday?”

Henderson nods. “Yes. I saw him in the bar, when I was walking through to see one of the pros.”

“What time would that be?”

He has to think. “Let me see. After three-thirty. I had a call at three-thirty. Maybe 3:45, going on four.”

Ghost does the math. Wood would have left around four-fifteen and walked the dog, probably let it relieve itself in the forest—that could easily take till around four-thirty. Dog kills him, then goes off that couple of miles down to Bill Baggs, maybe wanders and meanders awhile. All that could push the timing close to just before five, when Kathy Morgan was attacked.

He sees Henderson staring at him. “Could you look in your records for me, please, and tell me two things. Did he make a booking yesterday to play and what is his current address?”

“You got it.” The course manager walks to a PC in a curved reception area and bangs away at the keyboard with a single finger on each hand.

Ghost's phone beeps. He glances at it. An SMS from Zoe.

THANKS FOR LAST NITE. GONE HOME. CALL ME. Z

He manages a smile. It's good to be reminded of the sweeter things in life when you're up to your ears in death.

Across the room, Henderson slides paper into the printer and then hits Send.

Ghost wanders over to see how he's progressing.

The manager takes out two printed pages and passes them over. “First paper is Mr. Wood's address—over at Phoenix Park. Second is our bookings' log. He reserved a round for tomorrow morning.”

A squawk of police radio interrupts them. A young uniformed officer from the local Biscayne station shouts across. “Lieutenant.”

Ghost walks over.

The rookie covers his mouth so no one else can hear or notice what he's saying. “We've got a call from someone on Crandon Boulevard, says there was a wild dog snapping at people. It's disappeared into public parkland.”

29

Beijing

T
he army jeep rumbles down miles of cobbled side streets until the driver hand-brakes it on a steep hill at the end of a cul-de-sac. Sitting in the back seat is General Zhang, his blood still boiling because of Weiwei's failure. The damned scientist is holding him back. There are advancements to be made. Next steps to be taken.

Soldiers smartly dismount and march briskly to the front of a large dilapidated building.

They bang gun butts on the peeling blue paint of a tall metal door. “Open up! Open for General Zhang!”

The words chill the blood of the man in charge of the black jail. It's one of a network of unauthorized detention centers the party turns a blind eye to. Zhang sees them as a necessary filter in the system. They catch the dregs. The thankless complainers and treasonable protestors—the agitators who spread lies about local government and party corruption. Black jails are a necessary evil. Vile places for vile people.

The inside is shrouded in shadow. The stone floors are wet from disinfected water liberally doused to ensure that the general doesn't dirty his boots or immaculate uniform.

With each sanitized step, Zhang smells fear.

Smells it above the iron tang of spilled blood, above the sewage stench of those who've soiled themselves while being beaten and tortured, above the reek of rotting corpses waiting to be spirited away in the dead of night.

The jailer takes him down an ever-darkening passage. Down steep stone stairs to the basement where
they
are being kept.

The latest ones.

The women who dared sing songs mocking President Xian and General Zhang. Young fools who thought they could hide behind plastic masks of the Dalai Lama's face and film their obscene chants on camera phones with a view to showing themselves on the Internet.

Idiots.

The jailer almost feels sorry for them as he unlocks the basement door and lets the general into the fetid darkness of the torture room.

The women are already stripped naked and spread-eagled on death boards. Their ankles and wrists are tied to the rough ­crucifix-shaped planks, their heads held in nooses.

“Go!”

The jailer takes his cue. He shuts and bolts the door, leaving the general alone with the women.