The Dogman of Topanga

By Bret Burquest

Kay Weston, crime reporter, has uncovered a CIA drug smuggling operation but her newspaper refuses to print it without further corroboration. Determined to expose the operation, she moves to a secluded retreat to write the story on her own.

Shortly after encountering an enigmatic loner who shares a nearby cave with a pack of dogs, she has a series of bizarre incidents with digital clocks that beckon her to look at them whenever it is 11:11 AM or 11:11 PM.

Suddenly, she becomes the target of unknown killers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 7, 2000
• ISBN: 9781462814091

Bret Burquest

Bret Burquest is the author of The Dogman of Topanga, Goomba in Montana, A Bad Run of Fate, The Eleventh Sage. He lives in rural Arkansas where he writes novels and keeps a single-minded lid on the Lord of the Wings.

Book preview

THE

DOGMAN OF

TOPANGA

Bret Burquest

Copyright © 2000 by Bret Burquest.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-7-XLIBRIS

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

Contents

1 THE BLACK DEVIL RODENT

2 POCO LOCO

3 THE BODY IN THE CHALK OUTLINE

4 THE WINDOW TO THE SOUL

5 A LUNAR-FEMALE MOMENT

6 SNOT IN THE CARDS

7 FUNCTIONAL SPARTAN

8 NO POCO LOCO

9 LOST IN THE VOID

10 CANINE CONCUBINAGE

11 DOGMAN DUBBED

12 THE BODY IN THE SHALLOW GRAVE

13 MAGGOTS AND A GURNEY

14 PROCRASTINATION BLUES

15 DOGMAN DOGMA

16 INTO THE VALLEY OF DEATH

17 EMERGENCY ROOM

18 CRIME SCENE

19 THE PLEASURE OF PAIN

20 THE JOY OF SUFFERING

21 VENGEANCE IS MINE

22 FLATFOOT SCHMOOZE

23 BEEF IN YORBA LINDA

24 MAN TROUBLE

25 THE MILKING OF WOMEN

26 THREE ANSWERS

27 CONNECTION CONFAB CONFUSION

28 A DEAD DOG’S EYE

29 A DARKER SHADE OF PALE

30 OLD FART

31 ORACULAR STRATEGY

32 DEATH OF A GODFATHER

33 JUNEAU AND JASPER

34 WORLD’S LARGEST RAT TRAP

35 NOW OR NEVER

36 THE KEY IN THE BLOOD

37 THE ALPHA RAT

38 BATTERIES NOT INCLUDED

39 LEMURIAN’S BECKON

40 SHAFT RAP

41 WRATH OF THE WEATHER LADY

42 MOUNTAIN RUNOFF

43 THE SHORT VERSION

44 REAL BAD NEWS

45 THE MEANING OF LIFE

46 WOMANMAN IRONY

47 SOUL MATES

48 THE RIGHT DECISION

TO SHADOW

1

THE BLACK DEVIL RODENT

As soon as I got out of the car, I had the feeling I was being watched. Except for choosing the right wine or the right man, my instincts were usually pretty good but I was starting a new life so I dismissed it as a bit of trepidation setting in.

I took a deep breath and almost gagged. The whole place had a foul odor to it. It smelled like old jock straps soaking in embalming fluid.

The house looked just fine from the outside. If anything it was a little too big.

No problem with the grounds. All trees and shrubs and rocks just the way mother nature put them there in the first place. No yard maintenance.

It was at the end a very narrow, winding road. All uphill from Topanga Canyon Boulevard, the only link between Pacific Coast Highway and the west end of the San Fernando Valley.

Only seven houses along the road, most tucked well back. The nearest at least a half a mile downhill, maybe more.

An ideal hideaway for someone who was in a state of limbo somewhere between keeping a low profile and being on the lam.

An ideal hideaway for someone like me.

Old Chinese Proverb—Person who hide from others also hide from self.

I sat on the front porch and waited.

I still had the feeling I was being watched.

The house sat at the edge of an open meadow. On the other side of the meadow, at least a hundred yards away, a towering hill rose gradually and became steeper toward the top where it abruptly ended in a distinct ridgeline along the summit. There were scattered boulders ringing the ridgeline with lots of trees behind them.

If anyone was watching me, I was certain they were up on top of that ridge.

Rex the Surfer was supposed to meet me at eleven. I looked at my watch. 11:11 AM. Expecting a surfer to be on time was like expecting the Social Security Trust Fund to actually exist.

Suddenly I felt very odd.

My entire body stiffened and breathing almost ceased.

My head unconsciously swiveled slowly to the right and tilted back as if momentarily guided by some external force. I was now squarely facing the ridgeline at the top of the hill across the meadow.

Then I saw it. Exactly where my head had rotated. At first it looked like a small black speck on top of one of the boulders along the rim. But somehow I knew it was more.

I stared at it.

It didn’t move.

I stared at it some more.

It stared at me.

My focus improved.

It stood up. An animal of some sort with overly large, erect ears. Black eyes set in a black face. A sleek black body. Built for speed. And sneaking around at night.

It looked like some sort of black devil rodent. No doubt indigenous to the Santa Monica Mountains. Probably a ravenous carnivore that fed on helpless city women foolish enough to live in a house on the very edge of human civilization.

I looked back at my watch. Still 11:11 AM.

I looked back up the hill. The black devil rodent was gone.

Moving to Topanga no longer seemed like such a good idea.

But for now, it was my only option.

Rex the Surfer finally showed up. Probably too preoccupied preparing a lecture on the fundamentals of goofy-footing to notice the time.

He parked his pickup truck behind my car and trotted up to the porch.

You Kay Weston? he asked.

I’m not up here selling Fuller brushes, I said.

As a surfer, he was the deluxe model. Twenty-something, tall, blond, thin, muscular, tanned. He had the contented look of someone who had no responsibilities except to feed his own libido.

Here’s the house key, he said, handing it to me.

Thanks.

The place was cleaned yesterday. It’s all set.

By the way, what’s that smell, I asked, referring to the general odor in the air.

He looked puzzled for a second or two then sniffed his left armpit. I don’t know.

No, I mean the air up here.

He sniffed the air some, then declared, it must be the eucalyptus.

He sniffed his left armpit once again just to make sure.

What’s that? I asked.

The trees.

I walked over to one of the massive trees next to the porch and took a whiff. Sure enough.

You’ll get used to it after a while, he assured me.

Uncle Leo said you were going to show me around . . . how everything works.

Right.

Uncle Leo owned the house. He was my godfather, my mother’s older brother, and the only family I had out on the West Coast.

He never had kids of his own and always went out of his way to look after me.

When he found out I had quit the Times and was looking for a quiet place to do some writing, he said he had the perfect spot for me. Rent free. At first I felt a tad guilty, but it quickly vanished when I realized it matched my cash flow. Zero income, zero rent. It had a good ring to it. Two less items to deal with when balancing the checkbook.

Uncle Leo lived in Malibu, just up the coast from Topanga Canyon Boulevard, right on the water. He ran an import-export business out of his house. No fancy offices, fancy clothes or fancy cars. He preferred to sit on the deck in his robe and do business over the phone. In the world of fax and e-mail, Uncle Leo was at the top of the food chain.

Between import-export deals, Uncle Leo speculated in income property. He started with houses in Malibu and Topanga, then moved up to apartment buildings in Pacific Palisades.

He always had some bozo willing to look after a group of his properties in exchange for a break on the rent. Usually some bozo like a surfer with lots of time on his hands and very little money in his pockets. In fact, Rex the Surfer didn’t even have pockets.

Inside, the house was barren, except for an occasional light bulb and a half roll of toilet paper. At least it was clean.

I had always lived in an apartment and somehow figured a house would be more complicated. Rex the Surfer showed me the thermostat, the water heater and even explained how the circuit breakers worked. There were phone numbers attached to each item for emergency repairs. All well organized. Nothing complicated. Maybe I’d survive after all.

We walked back out onto the front porch.

He pointed to a metal stake just off the driveway and told me it was the water shutoff. End of tour.

Here, he said as he pulled a business card from somewhere under his pants and handed it to me. If you ever need anything just give me a call.

I almost didn’t take it. No telling where it had been since he had no pockets. It was faded and damp. It felt like it had been recently fished out of a spittoon. It read: REX WINTERGREEN, MASTER CARPENTER and had three phone numbers, one for residence, one for business and one for his fax.

Do a lot of carpentry these days? I asked, then thought I saw something out of the corner of my eye and glanced toward the hill across the meadow.

What? asked Rex the Surfer wondering what I imagined I saw.

I wanted to tell him about the black devil rodent. Oh, nothing, I said instead. I was moving to a new area, meeting new people. No point in making a fool out of myself right off the bat. Plenty of time for that later.

By the way, did your uncle tell you what happened up here? he asked, then went on to explain that the previous tenant, a podiatrist named Dr. Gabriel Buelow, had committed suicide about a week earlier by jumping off a nearby cliff. He said there was still a chalk outline where it happened and wanted to know if I wanted to hike up the hill with him and check it out.

Only an idiot or a moron or someone in between would take up such an offer, I thought, and I was neither an idiot nor a moron. However, up until four days ago I had been a crime reporter for the L.A. Times so it probably put me somewhere in between.

Nevertheless, I declined.

Would you like to go out for dinner some night? Rex the Surfer asked, another question out of left field.

I moved up here because I need some time alone.

So have some time alone and then we’ll go out, he insisted.

No, thanks.

I can assure you my intentions are honorable.

I can assure you my intentions are to never be in a position to find out.

He laughed some. Probably even more eager to sweep me off my feet.

I turned my back to him and started for the house. Arguing with airheads was not my style.

Call if you need anything, he shouted as he slipped into his pickup truck.

If I need a pain in my neck, I’ll be sure to call, I said to myself as he drove off.

I glanced up to the ridgeline at the top of the hill across the meadow. The black devil rodent was perched on the same boulder as before, peering down on me.

I was too mentally drained to care. I didn’t want to admit it but all those years of grisly crime scenes may have had a more profound affect on me than I had imagined.

The more I thought about it, the more I was glad to be out of the news business. Or at least, almost out of the news business. There was still one more story to break.

Maybe I’ll have black devil rodent for lunch, I yelled at the black spot on the ridgeline.

The black devil rodent rose to its feet, then stood on its hind legs as if it were daring me to stroll up the hill and give it my best shot.

Or maybe a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, I muttered to myself as I went into the house.

I had an important task ahead of me. No time for a skirmish with a black devil rodent.

2

POCO LOCO

Whenever I moved, which was often, I had one rule: if it didn’t fit in the trunk or back seat of my car it got tossed.

Large garbage bags always made excellent luggage. Two bags of clothes, one bag of blankets and pillows, one bag of sheets and towels, one box of books, one box of odds and ends, one briefcase containing writing material, one bulletin board and one word processor fit this time. It was easy to move when you had nothing to show for your life.

Old Chinese Proverb—Wise man live simple life.

I hauled everything in from the car and dumped it in the middle of the kitchen floor.

I made an extensive To Do List which included a priority code so I could perform tasks by relative importance. Ordinarily I was never quite so obsessive but I had a lot to do and making a list made sense, especially since I had to drive a considerable distance to do most of it.

The actual town of Topanga wasn’t much. A small community tucked in the Santa Monica Mountains just outside of Los Angeles. Sparsely populated. Mostly artists, actors, writers, musicians and other semi-employed Bohemians. A post office, a couple of small grocery stores, a couple of trendy cafes, a couple of real estate offices, a small two-story office building, an auto repair shop, a Laundromat and a few small shops for videos and herbs and yogurt and New Age mindbending. No Wal-Marts, no fast-foods, no big city trappings.

After making a quick tour of every room, just to make sure there were no child molesters or escaped convicts hiding in a closet somewhere, I drove down to the West Valley and spent most of the afternoon rounding up some basics. Furniture to be delivered. Food, toiletries, cleaning supplies, shower curtain, telephone, etc. in the car. Mostly food. I was determined to stay put and write until I dropped. Plus I wanted to make as few excursions into town as necessary with the White Knights on the loose.

When I got back to the house, there was a pile of lumber off to the side near the end of the driveway. It wasn’t in the way or anything but I wondered what it was doing there. I was certain it wasn’t there before.

After hauling the supplies into the house and storing the food, I plugged the phone in and was delighted to see the line had been activated just as Uncle Leo had promised.

I called Uncle Leo to test the line. I asked him about the lumber out by the driveway. He said he didn’t know anything about it. I thanked him for everything and told him I was settled in for my first night in the untamed wilderness where anything could happen to a careless woodsperson. He actually thought I was kidding and told me to watch out for the big bad wolf. As if black devil rodents weren’t enough.

After I hung up, I gazed out the kitchen window. The lumber pile was still there but it seemed to be slightly smaller in size as before.

I went out onto the porch and looked in all directions but saw nothing out of the ordinary. The black devil rodent was nowhere to be seen.

I went back into the house and reluctantly called Rex the Surfer. He too knew nothing about the pile of lumber.

I went back out onto the porch. This time the black devil rodent was sitting on his boulder, looking down on me from afar. I imagined him snickering at my confusion.

When I looked back at the lumber pile, I gasped. There was no lumber pile.

I looked back up at the ridgeline but the black devil rodent had vanished. Probably snickering so hard it fell off the boulder.

Then I heard a car coming up the road well past the last house. I slipped back into the house and closed the door. I wanted to hide under the bed, but I had no bed.

A small white car rolled into the driveway and came to a stop. Out stepped a lady with red hair and green eyes wearing a white nurse uniform and white nurse shoes. Her skin almost as white as her outfit.

It looked harmless enough. I stepped out onto the porch.

Hi there, she said as she strolled up to me. Her name tag read VERONICA.

Howdy, I said, in a vain attempt to sound more like a country bumpkinette than a city slicker.

Is Thornton around?

No one here by that name.

Oh dear, she said, then looked around like she wanted a second opinion. Are you the new tenant?

Yes.

Did you know Dr. Buelow?

No.

I’m sorry . . . I guess I should explain. My name is Veronica Rigby. I was Gabe’s—I mean Dr. Buelow’s assistant.

Hi. My name is Kay, I said, then paused. It was the first time I had met someone in my new surroundings, except for Rex the Surfer, and I actually blurted out my own name. I had planned on remaining anonymous but already blew it. I’d ask you in but I don’t have any furniture yet.

I’m in kind of a hurry . . . I guess you heard what happened to Dr. Buelow.

Sort of.

Well, Thornton is his brother. He showed up the day after the accident. He’s been taking care of the probate and such.

Accident? I asked. Once a reporter, always a reporter.

Well, nobody knows exactly for sure. He was probably hiking up there and slipped or something. He was quite a nature lover, you know.

Any witnesses?

"No . . . He didn’t show