Hour of the Rat (29 page)

I keep going, and it’s steep enough so I’m grabbing onto roots and bushes with my hands, and finally I get to another tree and I stop, latch onto the tree trunk, hug the rough bark.

I turn and look down the hill. There are two cars pulling up to the farmhouse. The light from the headlights of the second illuminates the first.

White. Blue band on the side. Blue-and-red light bar on top.

Oh, fuck. Police.

I
CAN SEE A
couple of cops drag the Chinese guy and the American guy out of the farmhouse, into the glare of the car headlights, their hands cuffed behind their backs. The cops push their heads down and shove them into the backseat of the cruiser. Then the Chinese girl. They put her in the other car. I can’t tell if her hands are cuffed or not.

No Russell.

That asshole. I knew he was up to something.

Two more squad cars pull up. Four more cops. Eight of them altogether. Two of the new ones go into the farmhouse. The other two start checking out the grounds, LED flashlights casting glowing bluish beams. Looking for evidence, maybe.

Or looking for me.

I want to run, but I’m not good at that, and I’m scared that if I try to head farther up the hill, they’ll see me, they’ll hear me. So I stay where I am.

I don’t know how long I sit there clutching the tree trunk. The cars with the Chinese and American guys and the Chinese girl leave. The cops come out of the farmhouse, carrying stuff
in bags. I don’t know what. The cops with the flashlights check out one of the sheds and then the outhouse. I hear one of them shout.

That’s when I hear a low-pitched growl, then frantic barking. The yellow dog.

I can see the shadow of the dog standing near the outhouse. See one of the cops reach down to his hip. Lift his arm up.

The gunshot is so loud. It echoes off the hills. The dog yelps; it seems to jump straight in the air. I press my cheek into the tree trunk. I don’t want to look anymore.

Shouts and laughter from the cops.

Then there’s a rustling noise. Getting louder.

I open my eyes. I can’t exactly see it, but there’s a dark shape, and it’s heading in my direction.

The fucking dog.

Flashlight beams pour light on the hill.

I clutch the tree trunk. Shrink into myself. Oh, shit.

I can hear the dog’s panting breaths now. I turn my head and see it standing there, head lowered, hackles raised, a low growl in its throat.

I stare at it.

Down the hill I hear another shouted sentence from one of the cops. The flashlight beams sweep in an arc, hit the tree. Then turn back toward the outhouse and the farm.

The dog stands there a moment longer. Then slowly settles onto its haunches.

I don’t move.

W
E SIT THERE A
long time.

I risk a peek down the hill now and again. See the cops going in and out of the main building and the outhouse. Sometimes carrying things. Taking breaks, leaning against the squad cars
and smoking cigarettes. My leg throbs, but I’m too scared to move it. The dog sits like a sphinx, watching me.

Now my leg’s getting numb. Just hold on, I tell myself. Hold on until they leave.

Finally I hear a car start. Tires on dirt and gravel. The other car’s still there. The two cops hang out. Smoke more cigarettes. Why the fuck don’t they leave?

I can’t take it anymore. I’ve got to move.

I stare at the dog. I clutch my calf with both hands—my leg’s so numb it feels like wood. Stretch my leg out in front of me. It’s cold, and then it’s like somebody hits me with a stun gun. I bite my lip, swallow the moan in the back of my throat, nerves firing like popcorn. Breathe, I tell myself. Breathe.

When I open my eyes again, the dog hasn’t moved. Neither have the cops.

It gets cold. At some point I curl up on my side, turn up the collar of my jacket, tuck my hands into my armpits. I can’t stop shivering. I think, Fucking catch me already. Just take me someplace warm.

I hear rustling. Panting. A warm body presses up against my belly and chest. The dog.

Eventually I doze, the dog’s head tucked under my chin.

I don’t exactly wake up. I never really sleep. But there’s warmth on my face and light on my eyes, so I open them.

The yellow dog is curled up against me. The sun hits a red splash on its shoulder. Blood.

I lie there a little longer.

The dog is alive. It’s still warm. It’s breathing. I can see its flank rise up and down.

Okay, I think. I have to sit up. I have to figure out what I’m dealing with. Besides, my hip hurts like a motherfucker where it’s pressed against the hard ground. I need to move.

Please don’t bite me, dog, I think.

I push myself up. The dog shifts and whines. Then it rolls and sits in its sphinx position. Raises its head and stares at me. It has these light brown eyes, almost gold.

“
Ni hao
, dog,” I whisper. “You’re a really nice dog.
Hen piaoyong.
” Very brave.

The dog’s tail thumps weakly. I’m not sure what to do. We never had pets when I was a kid, and I didn’t have any when I was married either.

“Okay, so we’re friends, right? You’re not going to bite me?”

Or bark? Because this, too, would be bad.

I look down the hill.

A layer of mist swaddles the farm, blurring all the hard edges, breaking up the morning light so it sparkles in places. The police car is still there. Nothing seems to move. It’s like a video on pause, except for an occasional ripple of breeze.

I squint, try to focus on the police car. I can’t tell if there’s anyone inside it or not. I figure wherever they are, they’re probably asleep. Maybe they decided to go inside the farmhouse for their
xiuxi
break. Cops here don’t get paid enough to stay awake standing guard over something like this. Whatever this is.

Okay, I don’t know for sure. Given my involvement with Lao Zhang and Creepy John and the DSD, who the fuck does know? But if I had to guess, I’m figuring Russell set me up, for whatever reason. Lured me up here, where he knew there was a substantial quantity of pot, and then called in the bust. Maybe he was working with that girl who was hanging out, maybe not.

And, you know, there’s no evidence tying me to whatever little drug action was going on here, and pot is not a hugely big deal in any case. But
that
amount of pot … any amount of bullshit evidence … depending on who’s paying who off …

Not good.

I can’t risk going down the hill. I mean, unless I just want to give myself up and fight the bullshit charges. I could do that, I guess. Call in some favors.

But the thought of getting locked up someplace. Of being in a jail.

I think of a cell from another time, in another place, of scabbing yellow paint over concrete, of bare lightbulbs in rusting metal cages, and I can feel the acid panic rise in my throat.

I look around. I think I see the faint tracings of a path heading north. Away from the farm. Away from Dali. Going to …?

I have no idea. But I don’t really care.

The yellow dog rests its head on its front paws now, still staring at me, but its eyes seem dull, half open. Maybe it’s in pain. I can’t tell how bad the wound on its shoulder is.

The longer I stay here, the more likely it is that the cops are going to wake up, that more of them are going to come or that someone is going to see me up here.

I have to risk it.

“Please don’t bark, dog,” I whisper.

I grasp the handle of my Yangshuo walking stick, staring at the dog. The dog stares back. I hear the faint rumbling of a growl.

“I’m not going to hit you, dog,” I mutter. “Promise. Okay? Just gonna stand up and walk out of here. Good dog.
Hen haode gou.
”

I stand up in increments, pushing myself to my feet with the stick, my butt up against the tree trunk, and if it weren’t for the tree, I don’t know if I could do it, that’s how stiff and sore I’m feeling, my leg muscles locked in spasm. All the while the dog watches, almost thoughtfully, it seems to me, like it’s trying to decide what to do: Bark? Bite? Run?

I make it to my feet. Stand up as straight as I can, feeling my back muscles clench and release.

“Okay, dog,” I whisper. “I’m going now. Okay?”

It lifts its head.

I back away. Toward the mountain path. The dog watches me.

Finally I turn my back on the dog. Walk onto the path. The way rises ahead of me, and all I can see is the point where it hits the horizon and blue sky.

I haven’t gone very far when I hear rustling grass, panting, the four-legged trot behind me.

Keep walking, I tell myself. There’s nothing else you can do.

The dog closes in as I reach the top of the rise. I can hear its panting on my heels. There’s no cover. If anyone down on the farm is looking up here, they’ll see me.

Don’t bark, dog. Please don’t bark.

Below me the path slopes around and down in a steep arc. I can see the lake from here, and it’s so big that the opposite shore is lost in the morning mist.

I scramble down the path. The dog follows.

By now I’m out of sight of the farmhouse. I take a moment to stop, to turn around.

The dog stops as well. Tail lowered, like it’s scared. Blood staining its shoulder.

“Why are you following me, dog?” I turn back to the path. I can see clusters of buildings here and there along the lake, something that looks like a village in the distance, a broad road, maybe even a highway, heading north.

I could catch a taxi, I think. Get on a bus. Just drive north, to wherever. Zhongdian, maybe. The government’s renamed it Shangri-La. The next stop on the banana-pancake backpacker circuit, where I won’t attract much attention. I can crash at a farmhouse. Some place off the grid that isn’t going to ask for my
passport or, if they do, is just going to make a copy and turn it over to the local PSB. A place that isn’t hooked into some kind of central foreigner-tracking system, that isn’t going to know that the Dali cops are after me for a bogus pot bust.

There are still places like that in China, right?

I actually don’t know.

“Fuck.”

I pick my way down the path with the aid of my walking stick. The adrenaline’s wearing off, leaving me feeling like I fell off a moving truck and hit the pavement hard. The dog still follows. When I stop, it stops. Hangs back. And when I start walking, it does, too.

We walk for a long time.

It’s pretty, I guess. Evergreen trees and bushes with tiny pink buds. The big mountain behind me, capped with snow. Another day I might appreciate the scenery.

The sun burns off the mist. Midmorning. I check the time on my phone—9:07
A
.
M
. I’ve been walking for a couple of hours. My leg’s hurting so bad that every time I step, I just want to cry.

I have to stop.

I lower myself and sit in the shade of a banyan tree.

What’s the point, I think? Okay, so maybe I can get out of Dali without getting arrested. Abandon my stuff in the Dali Perfect Inn. Not like I have a lot of stuff there. I have my laptop with me, which is the most important thing, and I didn’t leave a credit-card deposit this time, just cash. So I’ll lose that, but whatever. Worth it to avoid a couple nights in jail.

But how long can I run? If I make it back to Beijing, will the whole thing just go away? Like it’s some local problem, like … I don’t know, a traffic ticket?

I look up, and the dog sits there, a few feet away.

“Hey, dog,” I say.

Its tail wags, hesitantly.

“I don’t know what you think I’m gonna do. I don’t have any food, okay?”

The tail thumps harder.

“So … what? We’re friends now?”

The dog inches forward. Practically crawls on its belly.

I stretch out my hand for it to sniff—that’s what you’re supposed to do, right? The dog cringes. Like it’s afraid of getting hit. So I reach out my hand palms up. The dog gives my fingers a tentative sniff, then a nuzzle. I pull my hand back. Pat the ground next to me. The dog slinks over. Finally rests its head on my good thigh. I give it a scratch behind its ears. It has a yellow face with a darker muzzle, a ruff of fur around its neck, a feathered tail. Kind of skinny. Needs a bath.

And then I think, Great. I’m friends with a dog. What am I supposed to do with it?

An injured dog at that. I look at the shoulder, and it’s hard to see exactly what’s going on with the wound because of the fur, but it looks to me like the bullet went in and out and took out a small chunk of flesh with it, maybe the size of a quarter.

“Okay, dog,” I finally say. “I need to get going.”

I push myself to my feet and start walking.

The dog follows, at my side now.

Fucking great.

W
E WALK A COUPLE
of hours. The trail is rutted, steep in places. The weather’s okay at least, cool but not cold, with a breeze that gathers into gusts of wind sometimes. I get pretty thirsty, though. I’m guessing the dog does, too, its mouth open, its tongue hanging out, panting almost in time to its steps. Limping now, and I think, Ha-ha, of course I attract a limping dog.