Run

My dog noticed the dead body in the snow before I did.

He absolutely deserved credit for his discovery. But being a dog, he had no idea what this find would unleash (no pun intended).

Allow me to explain. A girl knows her dog well, and Freeway, my dog, would get excited at finding a paper sack full of old socks (this has happened). Although proud of his find, we were both later wishing he had found socks instead of a dead body. Well, to clarify, the body wasn’t dead when he found it.

Although I’ve had people tell me Freeway looks like a Leonberger, I tell them I don’t know what breed that is, and that I found him on the interstate, pretty messed up by a car driven by someone that obviously knew they hit the big guy, but just didn’t care. After lots of medical attention and posting on social media and other outlets with no luck, it became clear that the dog was stuck with me. Not caring much for the name Interstate, I chose Freeway.

With a job that keeps me away from home most of the time, I leave Freeway with my best friend, Kristina, on the days I’m away. It’s almost as if we share joint custody, she has him so often. But it works out well, especially given that Kristina’s beagle, Carlotta, is sweet on Freeway, and vice versa. Can’t deny that it’s a win-win situation.

I can’t remember life without Freeway. I’m always ready to come home after weeks away at work, looking forward to the big lug’s slobbery kisses and clingy ‘where have you been?’ behavior.

So, back to the dead body.

With a few days off, I thought a walk in the field behind my house would be good for Freeway. A tree line separates the house from the field. It’s a big clearing, football field size, with trees encircling it. In the beginning, we met the usual meandering deer and spied the kamikaze Canadian geese—always ready to spin out of control. A random snowman stood in the middle of the field, wearing a blue tartan plaid scarf wrapped around his fat white neck. Freeway galloped towards the frozen sculpture, his torso trying to keep up with his long furry legs. As he reached the snowman, he unleashed a torrent of barks and growls.

“Hey, genius, I think you’ve come across enough snowmen on our walks to know by now. This guy’s only a spectator in life. You’re wasting your time.” I patted him as we both admired the smiley face drawn into the round, icy head.

“Okay, c’mon. Let’s head back,” I said, a second before Freeway broke into a gallop across the snow. Looking toward his target, I noticed a motionless body, or what appeared to be a body, half buried in the snow.

“Freeway!” I yelled in vain. “Slow down!”

Beating me to the spot, Freeway looked back at me as I approached. His smile indicating a real find this time, excitement bursting out of him in quick yelps of joy.

“Yeah, boy! Good dog! Now let me see what we have here.” A man, his black overcoat covering all but his face, lay on his side with blood running from his back staining the snow.

It didn’t take long to compose myself, having seen worse. I crawled over to his face side. His eyes were open, which caused me to flinch, but only for a second. As I said, I have seen worse.

The eyes weren’t dead…yet because he blinked. A slight moan escaped his mouth, causing Freeway to bark again. I sat up to reach for Freeway and at that very moment, one of those damn geese flew over and nailed the front of my favorite heavy-duty mustard-brown coat with a hearty splash of their dinner -- or lunch, whatever.

As I swiped at the disgusting waste with my gloved hand, the man tugged at my now bird-poop-stained outerwear. His breath was heavy and labored. He said something in a low whisper. Not hearing, I leaned closer to his mouth and asked him to repeat his words.

His body drew into itself as he struggled to breathe. I wiped the gross crap off my glove with the snow and listened while he repeated the words. Again, I didn’t understand. I fell to my stomach in the snow, predominantly, to hear him better, but also as a method of snow-swiping crap off my coat. As I crept closer to his body, I allowed my ear to pitch forward, touching his mouth. He took a labored breath. I knew he was expending his last bit of energy. In one gush, he said, “Run!”

From experience, I know most would bolt. But I didn’t. Instead, I glanced around at the clearing and beyond to the trees encircling it. Looking at Freeway and throwing him a sorry grin, I retrieved my phone buried inside my outer coat pocket and tapped 911.

As I listened for the emergency dispatcher, the sound of someone screaming caused me to drop my phone. My eyes followed the sound. A woman emerged from the trees, running towards us. She wore a heavy fur (presumably fake) coat, and her head was covered with a yellow printed silk scarf tied under her neck. She was holding a large pink plastic flamingo.

Freeway growled, then began barking in a ferocious manner. The woman didn’t stop, but sped up as she came closer. Almost upon the three of us (legally, two live breathing beings, as by now the man showed every indication of his demise) the woman’s countenance shifted. She smoothed her blonde pageboy underneath the brightly colored scarf and perfected a smile through tight lips. Freeway stopped barking as he sat down beside me, panting and staring at this new arrival holding a fake bird.

“How are you today?” She asked.

Maybe it had to do with the strange and sudden circumstances, but whatever the case, I said, “Fine, and you?”

The woman replied, “I’m good. You have something on your coat.”

While I swiped at my coat again, she bent down and peered at the black coated body. “Is he dead?” She asked without any emphasis, as if she had no clue why the man was there.

“I think so,” I said. “You don’t know him?”

“Why in the hell would I know him?” The woman shook her head as she stared at me, indicating I was a bit thick. “What a pretty dog! Is he yours?” The woman asked as she cradled her flamingo.

“Uh, yes.” Needless to say, it was hard to follow her line of questioning.

I glanced down and spied my phone, laying at my feet in the snow. My head cleared enough for me to seize the moment and pick it up. “Are you still there?” came the voice from the other end. “We have your location. Emergency vehicles are responding and should reach you within the next few minutes.”

“Jesus! You called 911?” The probably-fake-fur-coat-lady glanced nervously around.

“Well, yes. That’s generally what people do when they discover a dead body. He was alive, but…” I shrugged.

“I can’t be here. Gus is picking me up momentarily. I’m not sure he can find me, even with GPS, given the circumstances.”

“Circumstances?“ I repeated while slowly shaking my head.

“Yeah, you know. My bird?”

“Your bird?”

The lady thrust the flamingo toward me, shrugging in what I interpreted as her way of saying, ‘really?’ but in body language.

As I tried to connect the fake fur clad woman dots to the pink flamingo dots, an older, red model sports car fishtailed its way through the trees and into the clearing.

“Thank God. Gus found me. Lady, if I were you, I’d get the fuck out of here. This place is creepy,” she said as she looked down at black-topcoat-man.

“You’re the second person to tell me that.” I blew hot air into my ungloved hand.

As the lady jumped into the sports car, a tall man in (believe it or not) a black topcoat walked out of the woods carrying a shotgun. He fired at me, causing Freeway to begin barking again. Meanwhile, the sports car took off, disappearing into the tree line.

I ran to the snowman as I looked back for Freeway. He was right on my heels. I gathered him to me as we hid behind the smiling, frozen figure.

With instinctual quickness, my Glock 22 appeared in my hand from the inner pocket of my coat. I aimed for the man as I waited for his next move. He knelt beside the dead man, giving me a chance to align the site and pull the trigger back as I circumvented around the snowman.

“Throw your gun down and put your hands up!” I shouted.

“Wait! Lady! You’ve got this all wrong! Is he dead?” This second man in a black topcoat motioned toward the dead guy as he threw his shotgun to the ground.

Still behind the snowman with Freeway, we witnessed a third man, yeah -- in a black topcoat rip out of the tree line, also carrying a gun, but this gun was a small pearl pocket pistol. As I patted Freeway whispering the words ‘quiet boy,’ this third guy pointed his pistol at the second black-topcoat-guy as he said, “Orwell! It’s time.”

The third black-topcoat-guy shot the second black-topcoat-guy (I’m guessing Orwell).

“Drop your weapon!” I shouted at Black Topcoat
3 as I stepped away from the snowman.

He started to cry as he threw his pistol on the ground. “What are you doing, ma’am?” He asked as he blubbered. “There’s no justice in this world. Nowadays, even a genuinely good person can’t seem to catch a break.”

I used the moment to glance back, checking on Freeway. He was still standing behind the snowman. I glanced over at Orwell, aka second black-topcoat-guy, who lay motionless not too far from the original (now dead) black-topcoat-guy.

I watched as Freeway drew himself further behind the snowman as the tree line started to roar, then converted into a continuous, deep-throated rumble. A motorcycle barreled out of the trees and into the clearing. It stopped next to the third black-topcoat-guy. I automatically began pointing my gun at the new arrival. Thank God whoever it was, wasn’t wearing a black topcoat, but wore a tight-fitting black motorcycle jacket. Over-the-knee boots hit the snow covered ground as the motorcyclist dismounted and removed their headgear. A cascade of long black hair fell out of the helmet.

Clearing my head of this recent development (my head-clearing process began to get quite easy at this point), I trained my gun on both of them, back and forth, as they eyed each other. The woman stepped over to the original dead man and kicked him. Then, casually stepped back to her original spot and slapped Black Topcoat
3. This made him cry harder.

“I suppose you have an explanation,” the woman said. Meanwhile, I’m still sweeping my gun at both of them.

“Agnes, sweetheart. You’ve got to know that I didn’t mean for any of this to happen,” he said as he quivered.

I cleared my throat, “Ahem! I want both of you to sit, legs crossed, and arms clasped over your heads.”

As they assumed positions, I addressed the first order of business, “Freeway! Come here, boy!”

Confident that I had everything under control, he slowly left the security of the snowman and walked over to stand next to me.

“Why is this man dead? I pointed to the original dead guy. “And why is Orwell dead?” I’m glad I had a name for that one. “And who is the lady carrying a pink flamingo?”

Frustrated and annoyed, Apparently-Agnes pointed at me. “You have a splotch of something on your jacket.” Then she said, “Carl stole bitcoins.”

I had to ask, “Who’s Carl?”

“That dead guy over there.” Apparently-Agnes pointed to the original dead guy.

Freeway must have thought it was best to separate Black Topcoat
3 and Apparently-Agnes, because he strolled over to the two and sat down between them.

Agnes gave Freeway a sideways glare, then continued, “Anyhow, Carl stole our cryptocurrency. Then Orwell traded our cryptocurrency for an NFT.”

Black Topcoat
3 sitting as instructed, hands over his head, interrupted her. “Agnes, he traded for artwork, NFT artwork.”

“Okay.” Agnes shrugged. “Aren’t you getting a bit technical? I mean,” she nodded her head in my direction. “We have other problems at the moment.” She then glared at Carl, rolling her eyes and shaking her head indicating her irritation. Then she stared back at me, “Can we get up? This snow is fucking freezing.”

“Agnes? Right?” Finally, name recognition. “No. Stay put. And continue.”

Agnes rolled her eyes again and sighed, “Right before Carl and Orwell stole our bitcoins, Willie and I—“

“Wait!” God, I didn’t want to ask. “Who’s Willie? Please tell me it’s this guy.” I waved toward Black Topcoat
3 with my gun.

“Yes, I’m Willie.” Willie sniffed, slowly coming out of his crying spell.

“If you will stop interrupting, I can make this a lot less confusing for you.” Agnes’ point was well taken, causing me to nod in agreement. “Willie and I planned on investing in AI, particularly ChatGPT and chip stocks.”

Recalling Agnes’ boot in original dead man Carl’s side, I asked, “So, did you kill Carl? Or did Wailing Willie over there do it?”

“I did. Willie was there. He was supposed to confront Carl, but he froze up. He’s such a creampuff. I grabbed Willie’s gun and shot Carl as he hung his digital piece of crap on his wall then I threw the gun down. By the time Willie found the gun under Carl’s ugly-ass sofa, Carl had run out the door.”

Visions of Jesse James came to mind as I asked, “How did he get from his house to this field?”

“How the fuck would I know?” Agnes rolled her eyes again. “Apparently, he walked.”

Willie explained. “Carl’s house isn’t too far away. He depends on public transportation. He probably thought he could shortcut to the next metro stop and get to Orwell’s. I knew he wasn’t much longer for this world by the way he was bleeding, so I followed him here with the intention of getting rid of his body.” He leaned around Freeway with his hands still up and peered at Agnes with a deadpan stare. “She wasn’t supposed to shoot him. Just get him to admit that he stole our money. But she gets a little carried away sometimes.”

Agnes bent forward in an effort to glare at Willie around Freeway. “Willie, you’re such a wimp! We had plans! Those assholes ruined our plans.”

Willie started up again, sobbing as he said, “But you didn’t have to shoot him. We had intended to go to the police, remember? Your temper got the best of you again.”

Agnes pointed at Orwell’s body with her nose. “And you didn’t have to shoot him!”

Willie lowered his head and began crying again. Freeway lay down, still between the two, his head between his two husky front paws. Willie recovered and through his sobs, said, “My guess is that Carl called Orwell once he was in this field. That's why Orwell ended up here.” Willie looked at Agnes and whimpered, “I couldn’t allow Orwell to get away after he realized Carl was dead! I shot Orwell because you shot Carl.”

“One final question,” I said.

But Agnes was ahead of me. “Lady -- whoever you are, we don’t know a woman carrying a pink flamingo.”

The tree line once more came alive. Sirens and flashing lights burst into the clearing, engulfing our circle of brainless, barbarous businessmen, and a trigger happy, female gunslinger.

After loading Carl and Orwell into the coroner’s wagon and Agnes and Willie into the police cars, the officer in charge walked up to me and Freeway. “It’s been one hell of a day,” he said. “This incident was strange, but the first call I received was just as bizarre.”

“The first call?” I know, but I had to ask.

The officer drew in his breath, then explained. “A lady wearing a fur coat intentionally ran her self-driving car into the dealership that sold the car to her. She screamed something about the self-driving mechanism not working, then said, ‘and here’s proof’ as she rammed the car into the showroom window. Eyewitnesses said that she stepped out of the car, tiptoed around all the broken glass, shouted something about wanting a refund, called someone named Gus on her cell phone, then grabbed a plastic pink flamingo. Apparently, the dealership is running some type of game as a promo and they’re calling it Flamingo Bingo, so they have several hundreds of those things situated around the showroom. The car salesman that sold her the car told us she was a bit daft in the head. There’s a BOLO out now. Still haven’t found her.”

I knew this called for more discussion from me, so I corrected him. “It was fake. The fur.”

Hours later, after I gave the police as much information as I could about the bitcoin gang and told them to look for a red sports car driven by a man named Gus, and one of the detectives offered his treatment recommendation for the stain on my jacket, Freeway and I walked home. As we approached our backdoor, Freeway began barking in excitement. He wasn’t the only one glad to get home. The house was a welcome sight for me, too.

I sat on the sofa and took off my boots. Freeway jumped up and lay down next to me. I fell back into the cushions as my phone began ringing from within my outer pocket. Upon retrieving it and answering, a familiar voice spoke, “Agent Naomi Bailey? We have a new assignment for you. This is a complex case with copious amounts of detailed information. As a field agent for the FBI, we are counting on you to be up to the challenge. It's fortunate you had a couple of days off to relax and unwind.”

After I hung up, I grabbed one of Freeway’s chunky fat rolls and said, “Well, Freeway, my old pal, looks like you’re off to see Carlotta again. What’s dogspeak for bitcoins and canine bravery?”

Later that night, after pouring a third glass of wine and intent on finding that soothing fireplace scene on my tv, I grabbed the remote and hit the power button. Live at Five News beamed across the top of the screen, with Late Breaking News scrolling at the bottom and the fake fur coat woman in the middle. Her yellow print scarf still secured around her head, hands clutching the flamingo she was saying into the reporter’s microphone, “It all started when...” I flipped to the fireplace.

Article © Teresa Freeland. All rights reserved.
Published on 2024-07-01
Image(s) are public domain.