“Eleven miles? What kind of terrain?” Frank knelt. Under his breath, he whispered soothing words to the horse as he gently curled his hand around the slim bones just above the right ankle.

“Mountains. Soft dirt. Logs. Rocks. It ain’t pasture, or racetrack, if that’s what you mean.”

Frank carefully prodded the protruding bones just above the hoof, then repeated the movements with the left leg. He stood, bent over, and slowly coaxed Sarah into lifting her front right leg, gently flexing it.

Frank tested the other leg. “She’s flexing a little sore, but nothing major. Rub her down with some DMSO, wrap her legs at night. Got any magnetic boots?”

“No. No new age bullshit around this barn.”

“Then just wrap her at night. Keep these ankles warm.” Frank stepped back. “It’s hard to say. I’d have to see her move.”

“Then let’s take her for a walk.” Sturm clipped a lead line onto Sarah’s halter and said, “C’mon girl. Let’s see how you walk.” Frank followed the stocky horse and the short man out of the stall, into the aisle, and outside into a large paddock. He watched closely for any hitches, any hesitation, any signs that the horse was reluctant to put weight on any of her legs. Sarah moved stiffly, but without any apparent pain.

“She looks good, but to be absolutely sure, I’m gonna have to do a flex test,” Frank said. “You know how it works?”

Sturm nodded, then said, “I ain’t feelin’ up to run today.” He hollered at the house. “Theo! You got three seconds. One! Two!” The back door banged open and Theo came sprinting out.

“You mind watching the clock?” Frank asked Sturm as he pulled Sarah’s front right leg up, curling it against itself, cradling it between his chest and thigh. Sturm counted off sixty seconds, Frank released the leg, and Theo took the lead line and trotted the horse straight across the paddock. Frank watched with a critical eye. Then they repeated the procedure with the three remaining legs.

Afterwards, Frank said, “She’s old, she’s stiff, and yeah, she’s a little sore. But she shouldn’t have a problem. Up there and back, not really. Not if she takes it easy.”

Sturm nodded and almost smiled.

* * * * *

Sturm made Frank point out where exactly where he though the zoo was on a map before he made his decision. Frank leaned over crisp folds of the highway map, laid over a well-oiled butcher block, and traced until he hit the third rest stop, then followed the next highway south. “Somewhere in here.”

Sturm said, “Okay. But understand this, and understand it well. You fuck with me, I will kill you quick. I got nothing to lose.”

Frank said, “Yeah.” * * * * *

Sturm didn’t pack much. A rifle, some beef jerky, an old milk jug full of water left in the freezer, a pair of binoculars, and a pair of walkie-talkies. Theo loaded everything except the rifle into a small black backpack.

They didn’t talk at all during the drive. Sturm didn’t even turn on the radio. Frank had to sit with his knees spread wide, wedged up against the dashboard, since Sturm had the bench seat moved all the way forward so his feet could reach the pedals.

It was nearly dusk when they reached the zoo. Sturm drove slowly, eyeballing the place. Frank felt a squirming, itching panic surge through his chest as he wondered if the quiet gentlemen waited on the other side. The place looked dead, not much different than three nights ago. Now, in the daylight, he could see the garish paintings splashed haphazardly across the rippled metal. Bright slashes of blood dripped off oversize teeth and claws, massive snakes curled around buxom, silently screaming women, alligators ripped and tore at pith helmeted white explorers. The front gate had been wired back into place and locked. A small “Closed” sign was slung over the top.

“I can’t see shit,” Sturm said and goosed the pickup back up to seventy. A mile west of the zoo, they spotted a dirt road, nothing more than an old logging trail really, but Sturm shifted into four-wheel-drive without slowing down and they lurched and bounced through the brush along a low ridge.

“There’s a pair of binoculars in the glove box,” Sturm said. He took his foot off the gas, letting the pickup slowly roll to a stop on its own. “Don’t need a goddamn cloud of dust against the sun advertising us,” he explained.

Frank handed Sturm the binoculars and they climbed out. Sturm came around to the passenger side and settled his elbows on the softly ticking hood, forming a steady tripod as he peered into the binoculars.

Frank watched the zoo with his naked eyes, hands in his pockets, as the desert wind billowed the suit against his frame like hanging sheets in a hurricane. He couldn’t see a whole lot of detail. The huge compound, maybe fifteen or twenty acres, was spread out like a prickly fungus in the desert. Thin roads meandered through piles of scrap metal. They were too far away to even hear the animal cries. “See anything?” he finally broke down and asked.

Sturm took his time before answering. “Nothing moving. Lots of cages, though. Can’t tell if anything’s in ’em.”

Frank glanced back at the setting sun. He figured he had maybe a half-hour of daylight left. He grabbed one of the walkie-talkies and some beef jerky off the front seat. “Give me an hour.”

Sturm nodded. “I’ll be waiting.”

Frank eased himself down the shifting, sliding slope of shale. He heard the pickup door open and shut. Sturm’s dry voice floated down. “Hey, son.”

Frank looked back up at the short silhouette. Sturm said, “You get yourself into trouble, you best get yourself out of it, understand? Don’t look to me for help. I won’t be here.”

“Yeah.” Frank kept going down the slope.

* * * * *

He reached the chain link fence just as the sun sank below the mountains. The fence was bound tightly to heavy steel poles, sunk deep in the dirt and anchored in concrete. There were no gaps. Above him, the piss yellow lights flickered sporadically to life, and Frank hoped that they were light sensitive, and someone hadn’t turned them on. They provided enough light for Frank to follow the fence east to the far corner, then south.

Once out of the line of sight of Sturm’s binoculars, Frank felt a little better. He kept following the fence until the monkeys’ screeching sounded the loudest, then he used the wire cutters he’d stolen from Sturm’s toolbox. After snipping a four-foot gash in the chain links, he peeled it back and slipped inside. He tucked the heavy tool into the small of his back and double-checked the tire iron was carefully secured in his right sleeve.

He moved slowly through the deepening shadows. He didn’t have a plan. Part of him wanted to wait until the zookeeper opened one of the lion or tiger cages for feeding, and then shove the sonofabitch inside and lock the door. But the zookeeper was too cautious; he never opened any of the doors.

So Frank crouched in the gloom under an empty flatbed truck and waited.

Twenty minutes later, he knew the zookeeper was on his way because the animals started in with their symphony of savage hunger. And before long, he saw the swinging light and the waddling zookeeper carrying a bucket full of pieces of dead greyhounds. Frank squatted lower, curling his fingers around the tire iron, but strangely, he felt no fear. He just felt tired. The zookeeper shuffled past, wheezing like a gutshot tractor.

Frank still didn’t have a plan. He’d thought about maybe skirting ahead of the zookeeper and opening one of the big cat cages, but figured he’d never able to open it far enough in advance. The cats would almost certainly stalk Frank instead. He followed at a distance, waiting for some kind of opportunity to present itself. The zookeeper shambled down through the lanes, never getting close to the cages, flinging chunks of meat at the animals. Soon the bucket was empty. Frank’s fist got tighter and tighter around the tire iron, but he never moved from the shadows until the zookeeper was a long ways down the roads.