But Robert Clapley knew what the severed ear in the freezer meant. It meant that Palmer Stoat (turd fondler though he was) was telling the truth about the dognapping. Stoat was capable of many tawdry things, Clapley knew, but hacking off a dog’s ear wasn’t one of them. A fellow like Mr. Gash, he might do it on a friendly bet. But not Stoat; not for fifty grand, or five hundred grand. He couldn’t hurt a puppy dog, his or anybody else’s.
So Robert Clapley told Mr. Gash to untie Stoat, then allowed the sweaty wretch a few moments to freshen up and get dressed. When Stoat finally emerged from the bathroom—his face puffy and damp—Clapley motioned him to take a seat. Mr. Gash was gone.
“Now, Palmer,” Clapley said. “Why don’t you start at chapter one.”
So Stoat told him the whole story. Afterward, Clapley rocked back and folded his arms. “See, this is exactly why I’ll never have kids. Never! Because the world’s such a diseased and perverted place. This is one of the sickest goddamn things I ever heard of, this business with the ear.”
“Yeah,” said Stoat without much fervor. In his cheeks he could still feel the tickle of Clapley’s rat.
And Clapley ranted on: “Stealing and mutilating a man’s dog, Jesus Christ, this must be one diseased cocksucker. And you’ve got no idea who he is?”
“No, Bob.”
“Or where he is?”
“Nope.”
“What about your wife?”
“She’s met him. He grabbed her, too,” Stoat said, “but he let her go.”
Robert Clapley frowned. “I wonder why he did that. Let her go, I mean.”
“Beats me.” Stoat was exhausted. He wanted this creep out of his house.
“Would you mind if I spoke to Mrs. Stoat?”
“She’s not here now.”
“Then whenever.”
Stoat said, “Why?”
“To find out as much as possible about your sicko dognapper. So I’ll know what I’m up against.”
“Up against, when?”
“When I send Mr. Gash after him, Palmer. Don’t be such a chowderhead.” Clapley smiled matter-of-factly and tapped his knuckles on the kitchen table. “When I send Mr. Gash to go find this deranged bastard and kill him.”
Stoat nodded as if the plan was not only logical but routine—anything to please Clapley and hasten his departure, leaving Stoat free to go get drunk. He was so shaken and wrung-out that he could barely restrain himself from fleeing the house at a dead run. And, Christ, now the man was talking about murder.
“One thing I’ve learned about the world,” Clapley was saying, “is that shitheads like this won’t go away. They say they will but they never do. Suppose Dick vetoes my bridge, and this pervo puppy-slasher actually frees your dog, or what’s left of your dog. What d’you think happens as soon as he finds out we’re getting the bridge anyway?”
Stoat said, “OK, I see your point.”
“He’ll pull some other crazy stunt.”
“Probably.”
“Not only inconvenient to me but very expensive.”
“Not to mention vicious,” said Stoat.
“So the only sensible thing to do, Palmer, is waste the fucker. As we used to say in the old days.”
“Did you tell that to the governor?”
“Oh sure. He said he’d loan me his MAC-10.” Robert Clapley drummed the table impatiently. “What the hell’s the matter with you? No, I didn’t tell the governor.”
Clapley informed Stoat that he, too, was a dog lover at heart. He would go along with the veto scam so that Stoat’s Labrador retriever might be saved, and also to buy Mr. Gash some time to get a bead on this lunatic kidnapper.
“But I’m not building any elementary schools on Shearwater Island, not with my hard-laundered money. I made this crystal clear to our friend Governor Dick, and he said not to worry. He said it’s all for show, the school item, and nobody’ll remember to check on it later, after the bridge is up.”
Stoat said, “The governor’s right. They’ll forget about it.”
“So we’ll get this little problem straightened out. I’m not concerned about that,” said Clapley, “but I am disappointed in you, Palmer. After all I’ve done for you, the dove hunt and the free pussy and so forth… “