Roost, the busier the two-lane blacktop became, though no one would
ever have mistaken it for the approach road to New York City–or even
Missoula.
He had to drive through town to the far side, where Dr. Lester Yeats
maintained his professional offices and his home on the same five-acre
property where Eagle’s Roost again met rural fields. Yeats was a
veterinarian who, for years, had cared for Stanley Quartermass’
horses–a white-haired, white-bearded, jolly man who would have made a
good Santa Claus if he’d been heavy instead of whip-thin.
The house was a rambling gray clapboard structure with blue shutters
and a slate roof. Because there were also lights on in the one-story
barn-like building that housed Yeats’s offices and in the adjacent
stables where four-legged patients were kept, he drove a few hundred
feet past the house to the end of the graveled lane.
As Eduardo was getting out of the Cherokee, the front door of the
office barn opened, and a man came out in a wash of fluorescent light,
leaving the door ajar behind him. He was tall, in his early thirties,
rugged-looking, with thick brown hair. He had a broad and easy
smile.
“Howdy. What can I do for you?”
“Looking’ for Lester Yeats,” Eduardo said.
“Dr. Yeats?” The smile faded. “You an old friend or something?”
“Business,” Eduardo said. “Got some animals I’d like him to take a
look at.”
Clearly puzzled, the stranger said, “Well, sir, I’m afraid Les Yeats
isn’t doing business any more.”
“Oh? He retire?”
“Died,” the young man said.
“He did? Yeats?”
“More than six years ago.”
That startled Eduardo. “Sorry to hear it.” He hadn’t quite realized
so much time had passed since he’d last seen Yeats.
A warm breeze sprang up, stirring the larches that were grouped at
various points around the buildings.
The stranger said, “My name’s Travis Potter. I bought the house and
practice from Mrs. Yeats. She moved to a smaller place in town.”
They shook hands, and instead of identifying himself, Eduardo said,
“Dr. Yeats took care of our horses out at the ranch.”
“What ranch would that be?”
“Quartermass Ranch.”
“Ah,” Travis Potter said, “then you must be the . . . Mr. Fernandez,
is it?”
“Oh, sorry, yeah, Ed Fernandez,” he replied, and had the uneasy feeling
that the vet had been about to say “the one they talk about” or
something of the sort, as if he was a local eccentric.
He supposed that might, in fact, be the case. Inheriting his spread
from his rich employer, living alone, a recluse with seldom a word for
anyone even when he ventured into town on errands, he might have become
a minor enigma about whom townspeople were curious. The thought of it
made him cringe.
“How many years since you’ve had horses?” Potter asked.
“Eight. Since Mr. Quartermass died.”
He realized how odd it was–not having spoken with Yeats in eight
years, then showing up six years after he died, as if only a week had
gone by.
They stood in silence a moment. The June night around them was filled
with cricket songs.
“Well,” Potter said, “where are these animals?”
“Animals?”
“You said you had some animals for Dr. Yeats to look at.”
“Oh. Yeah.”
“He was a good vet, but I assure you I’m his equal.”
“I’m sure you are, Dr. Potter. But these are dead animals.”
“Dead animals?”
“Raccoons.”
“Dead raccoons?”
“Three of them.”
“Three dead raccoons?”
Eduardo realized that if he did have a reputation as a local eccentric,
he was only adding to it now. He was so out of practice at
conversation that he couldn’t get to the point.
He took a deep breath and said what was necessary without going into
the story of the doorway and other oddities: “They were acting funny,
out in broad daylight, running in circles. Then one by one they
dropped over.” He succinctly described their death throes, the blood
in their nostrils and ears.
“What I wondered was’ould they be rabid?”
“You’re up against those foothills,” Potter said. “There’s always a
little rabies working its way through the wild populations. That’s
natural. But we haven’t seen evidence of it around here for a while.