The Totem

The old man didn't move.

"What is it? Something wrong?" Bodine asked.

The old man shook his head. "You'll have to help me."

Bodine nodded, walking past him toward the glare that spilled from the entrance to the room. He'd helped with this before, heading toward the pulley that was on a bar up on the ceiling, grabbing at the straps that hung down from it, tugging at them so the pulley rolled along the bar up there and stopped above the back bin of the truck. He climbed up into the back and hitched the straps around the midriff of the carcass, just inside the legs. It was heavy work. Even though the steer was not full-sized, he still had lots of trouble heaving at its bulk so he could slip the straps beneath and slide them into position. Once the stench of all those open guts, left out in the sun all day, became too much for him, and he was forced to turn away. Then he had the straps in place, and he secured them, pulling downward on the chain to work the pulley until the steer was slowly rising, its hoofs dangling above the floor of the truck. A hunk of guts dropped out and plopped near Bodine. He didn't even look at them, just climbed down from the truck, tugging at the straps to slide the carcass from the truck, across the room and then above the table. Another hunk of guts dropped. He grabbed the chain and yanked down on it in the opposite direction, the pulley in reverse so the steer was slowly settling onto the table. Next Bodine slid the straps from beneath it, heaving at the carcass, and he moved the pulley toward the entrance to the room.

The old man was inside, his hand above his eyes to shield them from the light.

"You're sure that you're okay?" Bodine asked.

"I'm fine."

"All right then. Guess it's up to you now. What about those guts that fell?"

The old man looked around. "Take these forceps and that plastic bag. Put them in it."

Bodine did what he was told. He set the bag on the table. "How soon till I hear?"

"I don't know yet. I can't tell yet what I'm looking for. Tomorrow afternoon."

Bodine nodded, walking toward the truck. "I'll be waiting."

"Yes, I know you will."

SIX

Then, truck gone, it was quiet. No, the lights up in the ceiling made a buzz. Fu

The old man kept his hand near his eyes to shield them from the light, staring at the carcass on the table. What to do? What he'd said was true. He didn't know what he was looking for. He needed rest, a chance to think and sleep. He needed to sit. And then he realized. He hadn't even thought to ask Bodine to help him slide the carcass into the cooler. He didn't have the strength to do it on his own. He could put the bag of guts in there. But not the carcass. It would simply be too much for him. He wondered what to do.

The phone rang. He almost didn't answer. But he thought about it, and he guessed it would be his wife, and so he walked with effort toward the door that led down to his office, reaching for the phone beside the counter by the door.

"Doctor Markle here… Hi. How are you?… I'm just about to leave… I don't know yet. Something got a steer… We're not sure. We brought the carcass in to see. Listen, don't wait up. I might be half an hour or so. Go to bed. I'll tell you all about it in a while… No, I won't be long. I promise… Right. Goodbye."

And he hung up. She'd told him that she loved him, and he'd smiled. With his hand above his eyes again, he turned to face the carcass, and he realized that he had lied. He would not go home directly. He would stay and work a little on the steer. Either that or let it stay out all night decomposing more until he couldn't do the proper tests. A few slides for the microscope. Maybe take a portion of the brain and cool it for tomorrow. Test the feces. Take a sample of the blood, the little that there was and in such poor condition. He winced from the sickness in his stomach, and he almost changed his mind. Then he braced himself. Nothing for it but to go ahead. His legs heavy, he went over to the sink and washed his hands and put on rubber gloves, a gown and face mask, out of habit really, and to keep his clothes clean, and to bear the stench. He didn't think his samples would be clean. All the same he liked to do things right and not contaminate anything.

So he stumbled toward the carcass, and he wondered what he'd tripped on and then realized it was himself. His legs weren't working properly; he'd have to do this soon and rest. There were three facts that he needed to learn right away. Whether the steer had been dead before the animal had gotten at it. Whether the organs were all there. Whether the predator had left some sign of what it was. The first he thought he knew. If the steer had been dead, especially for some time, the blood would not have flowed. No matter that they hadn't found the blood, it clearly wasn't here. The predator had maybe drunk it, but that still meant that the steer was freshly killed. The only sure test was to open up the heart. A lot of blood would mean the steer was long dead when the animal had gotten at it. Little meant the steer had still been living when attacked. The point was that a dead steer meant a scavenger, and that would help identify the animal that had picked at it.

The fact about the organs, whether all of them were present, was related to the first. If some of them were missing, the assumption was that they'd been eaten, and that would help eliminate a good deal of the mystery. The steer had been attacked for food. On the other hand, if all the organs were still present, he'd have to figure why. The extensive damage meant that the animal had lots of time to eat. Even if it had been scared away, there had to be a reason why it didn't take advantage and eat something at the start. Could be that the steer was dead, and something, not a scavenger, instead an animal that preferred fresh kills, had tried to eat and given up. Could be too the steer was dead, and something, a disease perhaps, had made the meat taste bad. Could be, but the only way to tell that was by checking on the cause and time of death.

The other fact he needed, a sign to help identify what kind of animal had done this, he was hoping he would find as he examined the organs. Something like a piece of fur, a tooth-mark, anything. But that would come as he went through the process. First he'd get a sample of the heart, the brain, the feces. Since the carcass was already open, he would start in on the heart.

But as he went around the table, looking at the open guts, at first he couldn't find the heart. Then he did, mashed in with the lungs and upper stomach. It was more complete than he had hoped, and he was cutting carefully around it, reaching in to pull it out and slice it into quarters. He was taken up with interest now, breathing fast and hard, staring at the sectioned heart. It was almost empty. That was that. The steer had died from the attack. Of course it might have been diseased as well, and he would tell that as he checked the other organs. But at least he knew that what had done this was no scavenger. It had been a full-scale hunter, on the prowl for food.

His legs gave out, and he was forced to grip the table. This was wrong. He had to get away, get home, and get to bed. But he couldn't make his legs move. Then he had them working, and he straightened. He tried to go but couldn't take his mind off all those organs, sorting through them. Liver, bladder, kidneys, all those stomachs. He couldn't understand it. Even shredded as they were, it seemed that nothing was missing. But that shouldn't be. He cut deeply into the abdomen to where the bowels were still intact and took a sample of the feces. The stench, on top of what was in his stomach, made him almost retch. He had to find a reason. If the animal had been a hunter, then it should have eaten. But it hadn't, and he didn't understand.