The Redemption Game

by Jen Blood

  He opened the door.

  Instantly, Oswald launched himself at the sheriff, whining desperately. The sheriff motioned to me and I took charge of the dog, who was only too happy to be petted and loved and held by a friendly pair of arms while the sheriff did his job.

  There was a stone in my gut as I imagined the worst, while Sheriff Finnegan shone his flashlight past soccer balls and goal posts, field hockey sticks and track hurdles. What if Albie had come here terrified and distraught, and done something desperate? The police had found guns at Nancy’s place. What if he had gotten hold of one, and then run to the safest place he could think of?

  “It’s empty,” Finnegan called back to us, just before my thoughts spiraled completely out of control. “There’s no sign of him in here.”

  “He must have put Oswald here to keep him safe, and then kept running,” I said.

  Finnegan frowned, nodding. “Yeah. But where the hell would he have gone from here?”

  I honestly had no idea. Oswald whimpered in my arms as Phantom rose to join the action. I cuddled the little dog closer, murmuring reassurances. We would find Albie; everything would be all right.

  I just wished I had some confidence that I was telling the truth.

  #

  It was nearly midnight by the time I returned to the island that night, after having been up since three a.m. that morning. Monty met me at the waterfront and hopped aboard while I was still trying to lasso the cleat on the dock to secure the boat.

  “Thanks,” I said, frankly surprised. Monty is great to work with, but he’s never once met me at the boat before.

  “What’s up?” I asked.

  He took the rope from me and got it ’round the cleat on the first try, the movement smooth and natural. It had gotten cooler as the night wore on, but he wore a fitted Flint K-9 T-shirt and shorts regardless. Monty is an inch or two shorter than my five-foot-ten, but his body is corded with muscle. His dark skin shone in the moonlight, a tension about him that was unusual for the typically laidback Southerner.

  “You work a twenty-hour shift, you rate a welcoming committee,” he said. I turned the boat off once we were snug against the bumpers, and eyed him knowingly.

  “I’ve worked twenty-hour shifts before and made it back to base just fine on my own.”

  He shrugged. “Maybe. But it’s a zoo up there—not a lot of down time for silly things like sleep.”

  We were at mid-tide, which meant the boat was about five feet lower than the dock. We’d had a ramp put in for just this sort of thing, since most four-leggeds aren’t great with ladders. Now, Phantom skirted around us and made for the island without waiting for my signal. It seemed I wasn’t the only one eager for bed.

  Monty and I followed behind the dog, and I wasn’t sure which of us lagged more.

  “What about Bear?” I asked. “I don’t suppose he’s seen fit to take a nap at all.”

  Monty shook his head, eyeing me sideways. Evergreens loomed around us, rising high and gradually closing in as we left the open ocean behind.

  “I’ve been tempted to tranq the little bastard myself today, if you want the truth.”

  I arched an eyebrow that I knew he couldn’t see in the darkness.

  “Sorry,” he said gruffly. “But the kid is dead on his feet. What time did he turn in last night?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said. Not a total lie, but it felt like one. I had the uneasy feeling that Bear hadn’t slept for a lot longer than me at this point, but for some reason I was hesitant to confess that.

  “Well, he’s acting like a man who hasn’t slept in a week. I used to see that look in the eyes of guys over in Afghanistan. It never ended well.”

  “I’ll talk to him,” I promised.

  We walked on in silence for a few minutes more. The Flint K-9 base was just over a mile from the dock—a trek I usually enjoyed after a long day. Tonight, it seemed like a lot more than I was prepared for.

  Farther in on the island, I could hear dogs barking and what sounded like a donkey’s bray; the crow of a rooster; owls, sounding their call overhead.

  Monty was right: it really did sound like a zoo.

  “So, what else is on your mind?” I asked, when he didn’t volunteer anything more.

  “Nothing,” he said. “What makes you think there’s something on my mind?”

  “Because we’ve worked together for seven years now, and this is the first time you’ve ever met me at the boat without me asking. What’s up?”

  He hesitated. Ahead of us, Phantom paused on the path, head up, ears forward. I waited for something to spring out at us, but whatever she thought she sensed passed. She moved on, head down once more.

  “Have you been following the weather down South?” he finally asked, when the base was in view and I was well and truly ready to collapse.

  “The hurricane?” I asked. “Sure. What about it?”

  I stopped moving, as did he. Despite the late hour, the place was buzzing—outside lights on, people’s voices clear beneath the clamor of the animals. Monty and I faced off on the path leading up to HQ. I noted how weary he looked—something rare, because Monty prides himself on his level of fitness and energy. Uneasiness niggled at the base of my skull.

  “My daughter—Grace…” he began.

  “Is she all right?” I asked quickly, surprised. I knew about Monty’s daughter because he’d elected to tell me during the interview process, but I wasn’t sure that anyone else at Flint K-9 even knew she existed. “Is there something wrong? She’s not sick—”

  “No, nothing like that,” he said quickly. “Thank God. But my ex has been having some problems…”

  He looked uncomfortable. I waited, quiet now, ignoring the reproach in Phantom’s backward gaze when she realized we’d stopped.

  “She’s dropped out of sight, actually,” he said. He cleared his throat, embarrassed. “They’re in New Orleans…” He pronounced it N’Awlins, not an affectation since it was actually his hometown. “The hurricane’s set to hit there, and they’re saying it could be worse than Katrina.”

  “And you want to go find Grace,” I guessed.

  “I know it’s a bad time.”

  “Doesn’t matter—your kid comes first,” I said without hesitation. “When do you want to go?”

  “It’s slow moving, so I think we’ve still got a little bit of a window. It could be downgraded, or head off to sea in a couple of days. I just wanted to let you know. I’ll keep trying to figure things out from here as long as I can.”

  “Do what you have to,” I said. “But don’t worry about us. Family comes first.”

  “Thanks,” he said. “Really—I appreciate it.”

  I nodded, but before I could offer a response I was pulled from the conversation by a jolt of light. It came fast, violent, inside my own skull, and blindsided me enough that I stumbled. Monty caught me by the elbow.

  “Jamie, are you okay?” he asked. It took me a second to realize he’d asked it more than once.

  “I am—just tired,” I managed when I found my voice again.

  He looked skeptical. “Well, get some rest. We’re on deck for the a.m. shift to look for Albie unless they find him overnight.”

  I nodded. “I’ll be there.” I waited for him to go before I reached for the nearest tree to steady myself, unwilling to let him see that I was not, in fact, as okay as I’d just insisted. The pain was more knife blade than hammer, piercing the back of my skull. I closed my eyes, and listened.

  Abusive in life, it seemed Brock Campbell was intent on continuing that trend now that he had my ear in the afterlife. It was telling to me that, even in death, I associated the man with pain.

  Now, I held still. Waiting for Brock’s voice.

  There was silence.

  Phantom returned to my side, and the pain in my head gradually faded. The dog gazed up at me, concern clear in her eyes.

  “I’m okay, girl.”

  Keep telling yourself that, James, a familiar v
oice said. It came from somewhere behind me, or sounded like it had, though I knew that wasn’t true. I resisted the urge to turn around, half expecting to find Brock watching me from the trees.

  Instead, I forged ahead toward base and the comfort of my own bed.

  I stopped outside Bear’s room before going to my own. Light shone from under the door, and my heart sank. Bear has never been a great sleeper, starting from infancy. I knocked lightly. When I got no response, I pushed it open as quietly as I could manage.

  Casper’s head came up when I made an appearance, and his tail thumped against the bed. I paused, taking in the sight with a rush of gratitude.

  “Ssh,” I whispered to Casper.

  Bear lay on top of the blankets, still clothed, but thankfully sleeping. Casper lay lengthwise by his side, his head beside Bear’s on the pillow. I risked a step inside to turn off the light. The room was as much a mess now as it had been when I’d come in nearly twenty-four hours before. Now, however, I noted a stack of books on the desk in the corner. Bear isn’t much of a reader—dyslexia robbed him of that particular joy early on, and apart from the stories I’d read to him when he was little, he’s never had much time for books. These didn’t exactly look like they were there for pleasure, however.

  Buckland’s Book of Spirit Communications

  When Ghosts Speak

  Psychic Shield: Personal Handbook of Psychic Protection

  Your Psychic Potential

  I paused, strangely stung by the titles. I knew that Bear could communicate with the dead—they’ve been appearing to him from the time he was a little boy. He likewise knew that I had some psychic talents, if you could call them that, but I’d always been hesitant to talk to him about those kinds of things. As a little girl growing up in a God-fearing home in Georgia, I was taught that whatever I might be able to see or hear, sense or predict, it was no gift. I don’t believe the things my family believed, but I’ll admit that there’s still a level of shame, embarrassment, over the phenomena that have followed me my entire life. I knew, despite my best intentions, that those feelings had colored my interactions with Bear on the subject.

  Beside the books on the desk was a note. I knew it was past time for me to get out of the room, Casper still watching my every move from the bed. I paused regardless, hating myself for snooping even as I read the note.

  I know you don’t want to think about these things. But maybe if you just educate yourself, you don’t have to look at this as a curse any longer. Just think about it. Love, R

  Ren had sent them.

  I finally retreated from the room, turning out the light on the way, and closed the door quietly behind me.

  I knew nothing about my own psychic abilities, apart from the fact that they seemed to strike at the least convenient times. From the time I was a little girl, I’d had prophetic dreams: dreams that seemed uncannily real when I was sleeping, and then repeated themselves beat for beat in the light of day, sometimes months or even years later. I had occasionally heard people’s thoughts, or thought I had, but it happened so sporadically and with such infrequency that I eventually dismissed that particular “power” as a fluke.

  In Glastenbury, I’d seen and heard a girl who had been dead some sixty years or more. In Bethel, Brock’s voice echoed in my head, repeating the words of the murderer who was stalking a woman in those very woods.

  I knew what I experienced, but I never examined it beyond that. Definitely never studied it. The people I worked with knew that I was ‘intuitive.’ If they were surprised at just how far that extended sometimes, they never said as much. But then, I didn’t exactly invite discussion on the subject.

  I went to my room that night with my head whirling, the ache at the back of my skull still there. The voice still echoing within. I shucked my clothes and didn’t bother to dig out pajamas. Instead, I allowed myself to crawl beneath the covers, Phantom beside me, and I closed my eyes.

  I slept.

  Chapter 9

  BEAR WAS ALREADY UP and at ’em when I rose at six the next morning. The sun was up, the island in full swing. Six o’clock is sleeping in for me, and then some. Bear greeted me on the trail to the kennels, five of Nancy’s mutts on leash beside him. At sight of me, they all strained at their leads, jumping and yapping at a pitch almost shrill enough to pierce my eardrums.

  “You missed the morning run,” he said. Every morning at five a.m., regardless of the weather, our team takes as many dogs as we can handle and sets them loose on the island. Together, we all run a three-mile trek over hill and dale, the ocean at our side. Bear studied me, concern clear in his eyes. “You feeling okay?”

  “I am, just tired.” I thought of the books I’d found in his room. The note from Ren. I had no idea how to bring up the subject, though. “Did you try Nancy’s guys on the trail?” I asked instead. Coward.

  “Just a few. I temperament tested last night, but only six passed.”

  The five he had on leash were all little guys. I recognized the pugs and a little Cairn terrier I was sure we’d be able to place with breed-specific rescue in no time.

  “These guys didn’t make the cut?”

  “All passed the bite test,” Bear said. The bite test involves using a fake hand on a long stick and going through a series of exercises to see how the dog responds.

  “What about the Newfie—Cody? He’s spoken for,” I said, recalling Hank Williams’ request.

  “I remember,” Bear said with a nod. “He’s doing great, just a little stressed right now. I’ll work with him, double check to make sure there are no health issues while Tracy checks the adoption forms, and then Cody can settle with Hank. One owner, warm bed and two square meals a day. That’s all he really needs.”

  The quintet had stopped yapping, so I paid a little more attention now that it wouldn’t be perceived as a reward for the incessant barking. I checked with Bear for permission first, then crouched with treats in hand.

  The terrier came forward readily, tail wagging, but snapped at the others when they tried to do the same. I straightened, and Bear managed to get a sit out of each of them before I gifted them with the jerky I held.

  I raised my eyebrows at him, impressed. He shrugged.

  “They’re all smart, just need some structure and consistency. House training and food aggression will be the biggest challenges. They always are in hoarding cases.”

  The terrier remained sitting in front of me, runny brown eyes on mine. The pugs were already up again, circling at my feet, whining in the hope of more treats.

  “She’s smart,” I said, indicating the terrier.

  “Yeah,” Bear agreed. “She’s definitely a star in the group. Somebody will be getting a good dog.” He hesitated, and I knew there was something more he wanted to ask. Once again, the titles of those damn books flashed through my mind.

  He didn’t mention them. Neither did I. Instead, he shifted uncomfortably and looked back toward the kennels.

  “I was wondering if you could check in on Reaver,” he said. “He was sick in the night. Therese has him on IV fluids, but I’m worried.” He paused, eyes suddenly old. “Maybe he’s just been through too much.”

  “I’ll take a look at him,” I promised, rather than offering any false message of hope. Bear was raised in this business; he’s seen every aspect of animal rescue imaginable. We both know too well that, just like he’d said, sometimes the animal has simply been through too much.

  “I’m scheduled for an eight a.m. shift on the mainland for the search,” I said. “I’m assuming you haven’t heard anything about Albie being found overnight?”

  “No. There was a sighting at Camden Hills, though. That’s where the search is focused today, I guess.”

  “How do they think he got there?” Camden Hills was at least fifteen miles from the Thomaston trails we’d been searching yesterday.

  “A couple said they picked up a guy matching his description out hitchhiking on Route 90.”

  Albie was pretty di
stinctive. I couldn’t imagine many like him were out looking for rides in the area right now. As leads went, it sounded solid.

  “Well, that’s something, I guess,” I agreed. “You planning to go back to help?”

  “Yeah. I’ll bring Casper—I’m signed up for the same shift.”

  “Good. I’ll meet you at the boat at 6:30, then.”

  He agreed, and we parted ways. I watched him go up the path with the dogs, and took a moment to get a read on my own state of mind. The headache and dizziness from the night before were gone, and a solid six hours of sleep had done me good. I felt more energized than I had in a while. I waited for the pain to return—for the voice to return—and was relieved when nothing happened.

  Up until recently, it had been at least a month since I’d last heard Brock’s voice, and the rare incidents when I did had been few and far between before that. I tried to push away any lingering concerns about my health or sanity, and focus instead on the dozens upon dozens of fuzzy little lives reliant on me and Flint K-9 for their well-being. I barely had time for breakfast; I definitely didn’t have time for monster headaches or ghostly visits from my ex from hell.

  Our brand-new kennels didn’t seem nearly so brand new when I got in that morning. They smelled like crap and mange and unwashed dog, and Therese looked like death warmed over.

  “When did you sleep last?” I asked as soon as I saw her. She had to think for a minute.

  “A couple nights ago, maybe.”

  “Go to bed,” I said shortly, fixing her with narrowed eyes. “Now.”

  “There’s too much to do.”

  “I don’t care. Sarah and Monty and Bear and I can pick up on things while you’re out. It does me no good if my veterinarian burns out now, or kills herself. Hit the galley, find some food, and get some sleep.”

  She frowned. I crossed my arms over my chest and glared at her. “I’m not your kid. Don’t try that look on me,” she said. After a moment, however, she added grudgingly, “I guess a couple of hours won’t hurt anyone.”