Kit Jackson stood transfixed in his yard near the woodpile, ax in hand, watching in horror as his dog Charlie ran as fast as he could to avoid the pickup's front wheels. The driver stepped hard on the gas, cut sharply to the right. Charlie strained to move out from beneath the front bumper and descending tires, his eyes bulging with a sudden knowledge of what was happening. But the driver's aim was true. With a sickening thump, the white truck ran over Charlie's hindquarters. The dog howled in pain, rolling over in the ditch. The truck didn't stop. It sped off down the dirt road in a cloud of dust.

Kit dropped his ax on the wood-block and ran to the gate, shaking his fist, yelling, "You son-of-a-bitch!"

Without his glasses, he squinted, trying to see the license plate. Numbers blurred. He had noticed the word "Electric" in blue letters and a streak of red color on the truck's door, but that was all. Strange, he thought — was that Jose Martinez? What was Jose doing home this time of day? Back for lunch? Maybe he forgot something?

The dog struggled to his feet and lurched toward Kit, whining in pain and confusion. A medium-sized black and brown dog, half husky, half collie, Charlie looked lost, helpless. He stared up at Kit, limping toward him, bewildered. "How could he have done this?" Charlie asked with his eyes. "I was only barking at the wheels."

Kit fell to his knees holding his beloved dog's head in his arms. "There, there," he cried, desperately trying to comfort him. "I'll take care of you. It's gonna be all right. It'll be okay." The dog was not bleeding, but he could barely walk. Kit flung open the tailgate of his pickup truck, and hoisted Charlie as gently as he could into the flatbed. Charlie yowled once in pain.

Kit rushed into the house, grabbed his wallet and glasses, hopped into the truck and backed out of the front yard, almost hitting one of the poplar trees. He sped off to Santa Fe 15 miles away.

The vet examined Charlie and found no broken bones, but kept him under observation the remainder of the day. When Kit returned at closing time the vet said Charlie would probably be all right. While they talked Charlie limped over to a potted plant, lifted his leg, and urinated blood.



Kit stood in the middle of the dirt road in the predawn light and waited, ax in hand, his heart pumping fast. The cold mountain air was dark and quiet. His breath came quickly, turning to mist.

He heard Jose's truck start up by the cinder-block house half a mile away back at the end of the dirt road. Now Jose was stopping his truck at the newly installed gate, getting out, locking it behind him. A door slammed. The truck moved on. It would take a couple of minutes to make it up the hill.

When Jose reached the top of the hill, Kit held the ax in both hands and raised it over his head. The white truck's headlights speared over the hill into Kit's eyes. Jose slammed on his brakes, sliding to a halt a few feet away. Kit walked around to the driver's side, noting the words "Electric Services" painted in blue letters on the white door. No red streak, but perhaps that had been his imagination.

"Hey, Kit, what's happening? I almost hit you, man. What's goin' on?"

"You ran over my dog yesterday."

"What? What're you talkin' about?"

"Yesterday morning, just before noon, you ran over my dog."

"I didn't run over no dog, man."

"Yes, you did, and you did it on purpose. I saw you."

"You're loco, man. You're outta your mind. I wasn't here — you know that. I work all day. How could I run over your dog when I wasn't even here? Hey, man, you're wrong. I was downtown working. I didn't run over no dog."

"It was a white truck, like this one, and I saw the word 'Electric' on the door."

"Watch your mouth, man. That wasn't me, I swear it, so don't get nasty. I was at work. Don't go accusin' me, when I didn't do nothin' — But hey, you know what?"

"What?"

"I bet I know who did it."

"What do you mean?"

"The Public Utilities Electric Company guy was here yesterday. He wanted to check the meter, but couldn't get through my new gate. I had it locked. I bet he was the one who did it."

"How do you know he was here?"

"He left a note — I got it here on the seat someplace — lemme find it. I got a note telling me to leave the gate unlocked so he can get to my place to read the meter. Here it is. See? It's even got the time on it — 11:40 a.m., Tuesday, March 24. That was yesterday. Look at it, man. Look for yourself. He drives a white truck, too!"

"That son-of-a-bitch. He must have read my meter and drove to your place just before I came out to chop wood. If he's the one who did it, he ran over Charlie on his way back."



"Public Utilities Company, Electric Division."

"Yes, I'm calling to see if my meter has been read yet this month."

"Account number, please."

As he read off the number, he recalled that something similar had happened two years ago. He had seen the driver of a Public Utilities Electric truck attempt to run Charlie down, but the guy had missed. Charlie had run out to bark at the truck, and the truck had swerved and tried to hit him, just as it did yesterday. Charlie leaped out of the way at the last possible moment. Kit was not sure the driver had done it on purpose. Maybe Charlie had startled him, making him swerve suddenly. It was April that year, near the end of the month. He remembered, because a neighbor's dog had been in heat then, and he had been having difficulty keeping Charlie home.

"Your meter was read yesterday, sir."

"Who was the driver?"

"Carlos Lucero, sir."

"Truck number. . .?"

"Number 1666."

"Does he always drive that truck?"

"Yes, sir, unless there's a mechanical problem."

"One other thing."

"Yes?"

"Two years ago, in April — would you see when my meter was read that month?"

"Checking. . .checking. . .two years ago — It was read on April 28th."

"Same driver?"

"Yes, sir. Is there some sort of problem?"

"No, I was just straightening up my records and lost my papers for that reading. When will Mr. Lucero read my meter next month?"

"On the 27th."

"Thank you."



He rolled over and sighed deeply, unable to sleep well. His wife Sasha moved away to the other side of the bed. Again he dozed off, again woke up.

"You okay?" Sasha asked.

"I'll be all right."

Carlos Lucero drove through the new gate on the way back to Jose's place. Kit waited in the bushes with his friend Simon until the white truck disappeared around the turn. While Carlos read the meter, Kit and Simon jumped out of the bushes, closed the gate, wrapped a chain around it and locked it securely to the post, trapping Carlos inside.

Carlos finished reading the meter and drove back. Finding the gate closed, he stopped his truck and got out to open it. Kit and Simon pulled black ski masks down over their faces and jumped Carlos from behind. They hit him hard, knocked him down, threw a gunnysack over his head, tied his arms behind him, pulled down his pants. While Simon held Carlos to the ground, Kit opened the large-bladed knife he carried, grabbed Carlos' balls and cut them off. Carlos yelled in agony. Blood spurted over the ground and all over Kit's arms and hands and face.

"Good God!" Kit cried, sitting up in bed, his terrified eyes open wide, his sweaty face distorted, ugly.

"Kit?" Sasha grabbed his shoulder and forearm, shaking him. "Kit — you're dreaming! Wake up! Kit! Wake up!"



He stroked the .357 Magnum's barrel. The gun felt heavy and solid in his hand, smooth to the touch. Quiet but fierce. . .comforting, lethal. . .dark blue metal. . .classy wooden handle.

"How much?" he asked the clerk.

"With tax, $425."

"I need to think about it."

"Of course."

Kit stepped out of the shop, pleased the adrenalin had worn off and his heart had calmed down. He breathed the cool evening air, walked to his pickup. The sun was setting under low clouds as he merged his vehicle into traffic. Although it was rush hour and cars jammed the main thoroughfare, he didn't feel impatient.

He drove to the Public Utilities Company at St. Francis and Aqua Fria. The offices were closed now. Only three or four windows remained lighted. Inside, a few men wearing white shirts and ties leaned over desks working late, completing details before going home.

He cruised around the two-story building. If he wanted to, he could return the next day, perhaps mid-morning when everybody was working. He could stride up and down the hallways, hollering and shouting —

"You know what Carlos Lucero did? Do you have any idea what that son-of-a-bitch did to my dog? He ran him down with his truck! He ran my dog down, and he ran him down on purpose! I saw it happen! I saw him intentionally run over my dog — and he works here. He's one of your drivers!"

He could carry on like that, outraged, and take it directly to the President's office, barge right in, disrupt the meeting, confront the President himself, yelling, "I want that bastard fired! Do you hear me? I want him fired and run out of town!"

If they didn't fire him he could return, pacing the halls again, hollering and cursing until they physically threw him out, creating havoc every day until they fired the bastard just to get rid of Kit!

Jobs were scarce, and these were steady jobs that paid well. The workers got off early if they finished before the day's end. After 20 years, they retired with a pension. Lucero wouldn't want to lose this job. How satisfying it would be to get his ass fired.

Kit drove slowly around the building to the other side. There, on the backside of the building, was a parking compound surrounded by a high wire fence, crowded with white Electric Company trucks. They looked alike, each with "Public Utilities" painted on the door in blue letters, "Electric Services" painted just below, underlined with a red streak. He saw Lucero's truck, number 1666, parked in a corner near the locked gate.

If he wanted to, he could encounter Lucero here. He could throw a Molotov cocktail when Lucero opened the door to get out, blow the son-of-a-bitch to hell and back. . .

Lucero probably drank a few beers after work. Kit could follow him and wait until he came out of the bar, tipsy, maybe drunk, surprise him in the parking lot, crack his skull with a baseball bat, slash X's on his forehead, puncture his tires, take an ax to his car hood, smash his windows. . .

He could follow him home, burn down his house in the middle of the night, shoot him with the .357 as he ran out the front door in his underwear. Shoot his wife, shoot his kids, too. . .

"My, God," Kit thought, pulling out of the parking area, driving toward home. "What's happening? What about love and brotherhood? What about compassion, understanding? What is happening to my mind? Where is forgiveness? More than two weeks now, and rage is all I feel. Revenge is all I think about. I'm no better than he is. Jesus Christ, I'm worse."



As always, Simon greeted him cheerfully. "Hello, mate," he said in his broad Cockney accent. "Don't be mindin' me friends here," he motioned with a sweep of his tattooed arm, indicating several surly fellows sitting quietly on benches and chairs in various places throughout the warehouse, some dozing, others reading newspapers. "They're just members of me team, y'know? Friendly fellas, not to worry."

Simon prided himself on the fact that he was not merely a security guard, but captain of a 12-man security force. He and his "friendly fellas" patrolled Santa Fe's parking lots, movie sets, shopping centers and various other establishments around town.

"And how y'be doin', mate? Been a while since we visited."

"All right, I guess, doing okay. . . . Actually, Simon, not all right. I'm not doing well at all these days, and I feel terrible. A little problem's come up."

"Complexities? Oh, good! I love complexities! Come on, mate, step into me office here behind the curtains — a little privacy, out of sight of me companions."

Simon closed the curtains behind them. They sat down on either side of a small wooden table. Simon offered Kit a cigarette. Kit declined.

"What's goin' on, friend? What be the situation?"

Kit told him what had happened to Charlie up in the mountains in front of his house and how he felt about it. Simon smoked his cigarette and listened thoughtfully, occasionally rubbing his tattooed arms, smiling sympathetically.

About 48 years old, bald, lean, well muscled, Simon was a former Special Forces Marine who had tattooed his entire torso 25 years ago in Vietnam. He almost always wore his sleeves rolled up, proudly displaying faded blue dragons, red dancing girls, black skulls, yellow flames, knives, spiders, exotic flowers, green leaves and vines. Although he never openly said so, he was a hit man on occasion, a fellow who cheerfully enjoyed "the art of persuasion," as he called it.

"That's about it," Kit concluded. "Any ideas?"

"You bet, mate. And the best idea I can give you is this — don't do nothin'!"

"What?"

"Don't do nothin'. Looky here, you know me story. Back in the Seventies over in 'Nam, me and the fellas had a good time doin' what we do best. I know how to adjust a man's thinking, if you gather me meanin'. A nudge here, a little clip there, a bit of a snip — it's all easy and fun when you know what you're doin'. But you? If you mess with this here bloke, he'll gather his brothers and cousins — and he's got a huge family, y'better believe it, dozens of 'em, right? — and they'll drive out to your place one night and burn you down. If you take revenge on him, it'll only come back on you. While he's pickin' his teeth, he'll kill you and your wife and your dog, and he won't think nothin' of it!"

"My mind's gone to hell, Simon. All I can think about is revenge."

"I understand. I do understand. I know just how you feel. Lost a few buddies in me time, I did. Some in hideous ways, too. I know the feelin'. I know what you mean. But I'm tellin' you — don't do nothin' at all."

"What do you suggest?"

"Looky here." Simon pulled the curtain back. "Take a peek. See that big fella dozin' in a chair over by the door? Him with the black hat down over his eyes?"

"Yes."

"That's me close friend Big Ed. He's an ex-Marine. Got a metal plate in his head from 'Nam, an' was a boxer for a while after the war. Don't have many brains left, poor chap. Likes to sleep a lot, and doesn't like to stand up very often. But when he does stand up, he's about six-feet-four-inches tall and weighs near 250 pounds. Now, if you like — and only if you like, and only if you say so — me and Ed can pay your friend Carlos a little visit, maybe after work. Don't get me wrong. Nothin' rough. Just a little talk. Big Ed will lean up and snooze against me parked car a few yards away, and I'll chat with Carlos in me kinky British accent and look deeeeep down into his rotten soul. . ."

Simon rolled his eyes, then stared sharply into Kit's eyes with a demonic smile on his face, transformed into a sadistic madman about to commit extreme violence, even murder. Adrenalin shot through Kit's veins.

"These are me Looney Tunes," Simon pointed to his eyes. "I'll just look deeeeep into his soul with me Looney Tunes, give him me sweet and charmin' smile, show him me yellow teeth, and let him know that from now on he surely wants to be very careful with his drivin' on that dirt road — doesn't he. That should do the trick."

"Warn him."

"Exactly. A pleasant talk, a little glance toward Ed — and you won't have no more trouble."

"Suppose he tries to run over Charlie again?"

"Me and Carlos will have our little chat first, see? I think that'll turn the trick. But if it doesn't, we can pay him a neighborly visit, and let Big Ed enjoy himself. I don't turn him loose very often. Things get kinda messy, you know? But I usually don't have to. Just a few words, a couple of Looney Tunes, a look toward Ed — that will settle the matter."

Kit nodded, considering Simon's proposal.

"What is it you really want?" Simon said. "That's the question, isn't it?"

"How do you mean?"

"Is it revenge you want, or something else? Think about it. Let me know, won't you? Happy to help. Meanwhile, it's good seein' you again, mate. Take care, and God bless."



Kit fed Charlie dinner, pleased with the dog's progress. During the course of nearly four weeks, Charlie had healed up well. He no longer urinated blood. He walked without limping. Last week he was able to jump up into the back of the truck by himself. He even took a walk up the trail with Sasha and Kit last Saturday, sniffing bushes and lifting his leg with the same gusto as before the incident.

After supper, Kit and Sasha lay down in bed, turned on the TV. Kit flicked through several stations, nearly all carrying the evening News.

Three murders in Albuquerque. . .a forest blaze set by an arsonist. . .five kittens tortured. . .a baby beaten to death. . .war in Africa, war in Bosnia, war in Israel. . .parents and friends weeping uncontrollably. . .hollow-eyed men and women gaunt from AIDS. . .

On and on it went, a litany of horrors served up for the nation's dining pleasure — beatings, stabbings, robberies, murders, rapes, appalling violence the world over, inflicted by hordes of miserable people upon other hordes of other miserable people. . .Was there no end to it?. . .

Kit pushed buttons trying to escape the madness, remembering Simon's words. Simon was right. If Kit took revenge, his rage would be satisfied, but what then? There was almost no way to punish Carlos without being found out. Kit and Sasha lived in the mountains, isolated from neighbors, easy marks, and Carlos would retaliate ten-fold. Satisfying as it might be to get Carlos, it was also self-destructive. From that perspective, revenge was stupid.

Still, maybe there were ways. . .

Kit flipped through more channels — plane crashes, children kidnapped, buildings demolished, politicians betraying trust, fathers slitting sons' throats. . .

"My, God," Kit said to himself, "Look what they're doing. And what about me? What am I doing? Do I want to be this kind of person?"

Horrified at himself, Kit turned off the TV. "I'm going for a walk," he told Sasha. He put on his jacket and called Charlie. They hiked up the trail, their way dimly lit by an emerging moon.

In two days, Carlos would return to read the meter. What was Kit going to do? He didn't know.



He sat playing his guitar behind the closed front door, looking through the small glass portal. Suddenly, a white truck slid to a stop in a cloud of dust in front of the gate. Carlos Lucero hopped out, left the truck idling, and walked quickly across the front yard toward the meter on the side of the house. Kit hardly had time to set his guitar down and open the door before Lucero was halfway back across the yard heading for the truck.

"Carlos?" Kit called. "Carlos Lucero?"

The meter man stopped short and looked at him.

"How do you know my name?"

"We met when I first moved here, remember? No big deal, I'm good at remembering names, that's all. You got a couple of minutes?"

"Two minutes," Carlos said gruffly, looking at his watch.

Lucero stood perhaps five feet 10 inches tall, about Kit's height, weighing maybe 20 pounds more. Kit did not feel adrenalin rush into his veins. His mind was clear, his hands steady. He had decided not bring Simon along as a witness or protector. He had concluded that this was a man-to-man thing, and so approached Lucero alone, ready for whatever might happen.

"Maybe not two minutes," Kit said. "More like five. Kind of important."

Lucero nodded. Kit glanced at the truck. It was not number 1666 — but a different truck, number 1667.

"Oh, by the way," Kit said casually, "I was talking to Jose Martinez in the back house at the end of the road — you left a notice for him last month. . .?"

"What?"

"He said you left a notice for him on the 24th of last month — about the locked gate?"

"Oh, yeah. I did."

Good, Kit thought. That places him here without question. Lucero was here, nobody else, and he was here on that particular day.

"Jose said he'd take care of it. I don't know if he actually will," Kit smiled, "but he said he would."

Lucero relaxed. He was a handsome young man, early thirties, thick black hair, smooth olive skin, his dark eyes intelligent, waiting.

Charlie stood up and walked over to the meter man. Lucero held out his hand. "Good doggie," Lucero said. Charlie sniffed the hand and backed away. "Here, boy," Lucero said, his voice warm, friendly. Charlie backed off further, a low growl in his throat.

"Don't mind Charlie," Kit said. "Nothing personal. He's just shy. He won't trouble you." Charlie lay down under Kit's pickup. "Anyway, I wanted to talk with you, because something happened last month."

"Oh, yeah? What was that?"

"Well, it was kind of odd. My wife and I moved to this place about six years ago. We wanted to get away from city people and their violent trips, you know? So we moved here, away from the city and its insanity, out in the country, quiet, peaceful, a year-round stream in the meadow, a mountain trail, a nice adobe house on a dirt road far away from traffic — oh, by the way, that road is a 15 mile an hour road — it's not posted, but I checked — most people drive slowly, not too fast. . ."

Lucero looked closely at Kit, alert, aware, paying attention.

"We never dreamed anybody would suddenly appear out of the blue and inflict horror upon us for no reason at all — but that's what happened, Carlos. Hard to believe, isn't it? Nevertheless, it happened."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, somebody in a truck just like that one ran my dog down."

"No," Lucero said, his tone innocent, disbelieving.

"Yeah, he did. He did it intentionally, too. He stepped hard on the gas and ran over him on purpose. I was here. I saw it happen."

Lucero's face remained impassive, although his eyes were clearly on guard behind the non-committal deadpan look.

"I'm not saying it was you. I'm not accusing anybody."

With a slight shift of his eyebrows, Lucero showed relief.

"I mean, if you did do it, then you know you did it, and I don't have to say so."

"Yes."

"And if you didn't do it, well, you might hear somebody talking about it down at the yard near St. Francis and Aqua Fria where you and the guys park your trucks after work."

"Boy, you sure know a lot," Lucero said.

"That's true," Kit smiled. "Either way, it's important that whoever did it knows how I feel and what I intend to do about it, do you agree?"

"Yes, that's right. I agree."

"All I could think about this month was revenge — how to get back at the guy who ran Charlie down. I mean, how could he do such a thing? An innocent animal, not attacking the driver, just barking at the truck — look at him. He's like a child, isn't he? No broken bones, thank God, although he pissed blood for two weeks, and the vet cost me $200. But that's okay. I love him."

"Yeah, I have a dog, too. I love him, just like my own family."

"So you understand."

"Oh, yeah, I do understand. I would never run over a dog and then not stop."

"Yes. . .You're right, the driver didn't stop. . ."

Kit paused, letting it sink in that he had not mentioned that the driver had not stopped. Carlos' eyes glittered with a flash of anxiety.

"I love Charlie," Kit continued casually. "He's an important part of our family, you know? So all I could think about was how to hurt this guy or get him fired. You can understand that, can't you?"

"I sure can. I'd feel the same way."

"But you know what happened?"

"No — what?"

"I changed my mind."

"You did?"

"I did. I decided against revenge. No physical violence, no phone calls, no getting anybody fired. I'm not even going to try to collect the $200."

"That's pretty cool, man. How come?"

"I was watching the News one night. I felt sick to my stomach, seeing all the horrible things people do to each other, you know? As I watched, a question suddenly came to mind."

"A question?"

"I asked myself, 'What do I really want?'"

Carlos looked puzzled. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, do I want revenge on this guy? Do I want to bring more pain and misery into the world? Do I want to be the kind of person I'm watching on TV? Do I want to be the same kind of guy who ran over my dog?"

"Ahh, yes, I see what you mean."

"That's when I decided I didn't want revenge. I don't want to be that kind of person. I don't want to add more horror to the world we live in."

"What do you want?"

"All I really want is for my dog to be safe, and for me and my wife to be able to live without fear of his being hurt again on purpose."

"Hey, that's good," Carlos said, smiling. "I can understand that."

"A couple of years ago, I saw somebody in a white truck just like that one try to run Charlie down, but he missed. Charlie was younger and quicker then, able to get away."

"Well, lots of trucks like this one come up here. It could have been anybody."

"Oh? Does somebody else work this route besides you?"

"Ah, well, no. . .No, but sometimes they come up to check the gas lines."

"There aren't any gas lines up here — propane tanks, filled by private companies — but you're right, Carlos. It could have been anybody — either time. All I'm saying is that I won't cause any trouble about this incident, provided you and the other guys drive slowly in front of the house here, less than 20 miles an hour. Sound reasonable?"

"Sure does."

Kit looked deep into Carlos' eyes — "And never, ever hurt my dog again. Don't even try. Do you understand? If anything like that happens even one time, I'll raise more hell than you could possibly imagine."

Carlos smiled wanly, nodding his head.

They walked together toward the truck.

"Did you see any license plate or I.D. number on the truck last month?"

"Let's put it this way — the number on this truck is 1667. Not your regular vehicle, is it?"

"That's right."

"Your regular truck is number 1666. Maybe a mechanical problem?"

"Boy, you really do know a lot, don't you."

"Have a good day, Carlos, and take it easy on the road, yes?"

Lucero extended his hand. Kit shook it.

Lucero drove off toward Jose's place. Kit sat down on his lawn and waited for the truck to reappear over the hill. Would Lucero come roaring over the top, enraged, throwing Kit the finger, cursing at him. . .?

He waited. A cool breeze rustled the poplar trees. Charlie dozed underneath Kit's pickup. Kit heard Lucero's vehicle approaching from the back house. . .Charlie raised his head, perked up his ears. . .

Carlos drove slowly over the top of the hill. He waved at Kit and nodded farewell on his way past the front gate. Kit waved back. The sound of Lucero's truck faded away into silence. All was quiet again. Another breeze whispered through the poplar trees.

Smiling to himself, Kit patted Charlie on the head and left him dozing in the yard. He walked back inside and played guitar, looking forward to telling Sasha what happened when she came home from work.

Lee Underwood
Rio En Medio, NM
November 4, 1996