by Laura Childs
Toni nodded. “Annoying, isn’t it?” Every time they hit a little bump there was a metallic rattle.
“What’s he got in there?”
Toni shrugged. “I don’t know. Car parts. Maybe a carburetor or something.”
“Scrap metal?”
“Dunno. Maybe.”
“How’s that working out for him?” Suzanne asked. “His ... uh... new sideline.” She refrained from saying “harebrained scheme,” even though that’s what it probably was.
“Things are good,” said Toni, sounding her chirpiest.
“Seriously?”
“Aw, I don’t know,” said Toni, her chirpiness crumbling. “Who knows with Junior? At least he’s trying. Giving it a whack.”
“Planning for the future,” said Suzanne.
“Junior’s idea of planning for the future is to buy two six-packs instead of one.” Toni snorted. “In fact, Junior’s so darned immature I worry about finding his face on the back of a milk carton!”
“Funny,” said Suzanne, although it was partly true.
Toni popped in a Rolling Stones tape and that kept them entertained for another five miles or so, until Suzanne asked, “How close are we?”
“Pretty close.”
Gazing out the window, Suzanne enjoyed the view of rolling fields and blue black starlit sky. Whenever the road dipsy-doodled, she caught a flash of a fast-moving stream. “Does Tortuga mean anything to you?” she asked, suddenly.
Toni hesitated a few moments before answering. “Maybe those islands in the Caribbean? Or, wait a minute, doesn’t Tortuga mean turtle in Spanish?”
“I think so.”
“Why are you asking?” asked Toni.
Suzanne took a deep breath. “Here’s the thing... I had a wild idea and did a little snooping today.”
Toni glanced at her sharply. “Snooping. Meaning you broke the law? Not that I’m a staunch defender of the law or anything.”
“It might have been a criminal offense,” said Suzanne, “except I had Sheriff Doogie’s endorsement.”
Toni giggled. “Seriously?”
“I asked Doogie if he could use a fresh pair of eyes,” said Suzanne. “To take a look-see inside Chuck Peebler’s house.”
Toni’s jaw dropped. “Doogie let you? You actually snuck in there?”
Suzanne nodded. “All by my lonesome.”
“Eeyeew,” said Toni. “You creepy-crawled a dead guy’s house? I would have been totally weirded out.”
“When you put it that way...”
“Doogie must be really nervous to let a civilian get in on the act.”
Suzanne nodded in the dark. “You saw how depressed he was this morning. And with Deputy Halpern’s funeral set for tomorrow, he’s really down on himself.”
“So where is all this going?” Toni asked. “You found something to do with Tortuga?”
“Oh... yeah. Peebler had scrawled the word Tortuga on a Post-it note.”
“Maybe he was planning a nice warm-weather island adventure?”
“Maybe,” said Suzanne. “Or maybe he just liked turtles.”
Ten minutes later, Suzanne was beginning to squirm in her seat. “How far have we come anyway?”
Toni squinted at her dashboard. “According to my handy-dandy trip meter, almost twenty-six miles.”
“Long drive just for pumpkins.”
“We’re almost there.” Toni tromped down on the accelerator, edging up to almost seventy miles an hour. For Toni, the posted speed limit was the equivalent of suggested retail price. It could fluctuate widely.
Suzanne watched more woods and fields fly by, thinking back to the other night, when she and Petra had gotten turned around out here. When she’d stumbled upon Wilbur Halpern. “I feel like I was just out this way.”
“Aw, these roads all look the same,” said Toni. “Farm fields, woods, streams, and stuff.”
“I think it’s called nature.”
Toni slowed her car, rolled past a dark, deserted intersection, then said, “Horse pucky. I think I’m lost.”
“Let’s stop and look at the map,” Suzanne suggested.
Toni eased the car onto the shoulder and clicked on the overhead light. Suzanne held up the map so they could study it.
“What do you think?” asked Toni.
Suzanne puzzled over the hastily drawn map. “It’s hard enough to decipher Junior’s handwriting, but the map itself
is sketchy. Like something the Hardy Boys drew to show the way to their fort.”
“Aside from that,” said Toni. “Aside from the fact that it looks like a three-year-old did it.”
“Nothing’s drawn to scale,” said Suzanne. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I don’t think cartography is Junior’s strong point.” Her fingernail scratched at the paper. “And what’s this humpy-looking line supposed to indicate? Hills?”
“River,” said Toni. “Catawba Creek.” Toni cocked her head. “Too bad we don’t have GPS.”
“Instead of JPS,” said Suzanne. “J being Junior.”
Toni grabbed the map and turned it upside down. “Aw, we’re not so far off, ya know? I think the pumpkin patch is down the road we just Tolled past”
“You think?”
Toni was already backing up the car. “Sure. We’ll be there in a jiffy.”
They left the asphalt road and turned down the gravel road, creeping along at ten miles an hour. Rocks crunched beneath their tires, something made a low, guttural sound off in the distance. An owl?
“And here we are,” said Toni, pulling onto a flat patch of grass.
“Deserted,” said Suzanne, glancing around.
“We follow a short trail through this cornfield, then the pumpkin patch is the very next field.”
“We gotta schlep pumpkins all the way back here?” Suzanne asked.
“We’ll just scope it out,” said Toni. “If the land’s flat enough, I’ll drive the Jungle Cruiser in and we can load up in ten minutes flat.”
“I like your optimism,” said Suzanne, as they started down the path.
“Chilly,” said Toni, pulling her collar up.
“And dark,” said Suzanne. “I can’t believe we forgot to bring a flashlight.”
They walked for another five minutes on uneven ground.
“Are you ...” Suzanne began.
But Toni suddenly threw up an arm and said, “Whoa! You hear that? It was like a high-pitched yip!”
Suzanne halted in her tracks. She had heard something.
“Maybe a pack of coyotes?” asked Toni. “We might have to, like, throw rocks at them or something.”
“That’s our self-defense plan?” said Suzanne. “Throw rocks?”
“I could go back and grab a tire iron.”
Suzanne grimaced. “Okay, rocks it is.”
But the yips had turned to barking. Loud, insistent barking.
“Dogs?” wondered Toni.
“I think so,” said Suzanne. “But more than just a couple. It sounds like a whole pack.”
They wandered farther down the path until they came to a weedy area, circular, but with the grass all matted down. Then the moon slipped out from behind the clouds and shone down on a low, wooden building. Now they could hear barks, woofs, and snuffles coming from what appeared to be metal cages.
“It is dogs,” exclaimed Toni. “Cool. This must be some kind of breeding kennel.”
Suzanne was more tentative. “I don’t know ...”
Toni strolled right up to one of the cages. “Or maybe one of those puppy mills you read about.” She peered at
it, speculatively. “Although these guys look kind of big for puppies.”
“Oh man!” said Suzanne, suddenly recognizing the place for what it was. “You know what kind of dogs these are?”
“Cute dogs,” said Toni, as she reached a hand out and unlatched one of the cages. “Snuggly dogs.”
“They’re fighting dogs!” Suzanne yelled, as a brown furry object hurtled from its
cage, caroming into Toni and knocking her down. The canine landed in a scramble of legs, righted itself, then paused when it saw Suzanne. The dog moved in a slow circle, tail down, shoulders hunched, its fiery eyes fixed on Suzanne.
“Don’t move,” Suzanne hissed. “Don’t show fear.”
‘Too late,” said Toni, “I think I already wet my pants.”
Like a dangerous, fur-covered shark, the dog turned its large head slowly and snarled in Toni’s direction. “Good boy?” she said, weakly. The dog didn’t adjust his attitude one bit.
“We need to walk out of here very slowly,” Suzanne cautioned. “Don’t turn your back on him or look directly into his eyes. No challenges; let the dog think he’s dominant.”
“He’ll get no argument from me,” said Toni, slowly pulling herself to her knees.
“Easy now,” said Suzanne. Gingerly, she took a step backward.
Watching Toni struggle to get up, the canine let loose a low, throaty growl and advanced a step toward her. His muzzle was pulled back in a pile of ugly wrinkles, his eyes were filled with intensity.
“Holy crapola!” said Toni, real fear tingeing her voice. “I think he’s gonna...”
Suzanne threw her arms up in the air and shouted. “Hey, dog! Get over here, mutt!”
His concentration suddenly broken, the dog swung angrily toward Suzanne. Then he set his muscular legs in a fighting stance and rumbled toward her like a steam locomotive!
Suzanne abandoned her own advice and bolted. Sprinting and scrambling, she knew she wasn’t going to make it after the first few steps, then stumbled badly as her toe caught on something.
The earth rushed up to meet her as her open hands slapped hard against a piece of wire mesh. Quick as a snapping turtle, Suzanne staggered back to her feet, holding up the discarded mesh as a kind of shield. The dog lunged at her, but Suzanne fended it off. “Easy,” she told the dog. “Just take it easy.”
The dog rushed at her a second time and this time Suzanne pushed the mesh firmly against its muzzle. Then, still positioning the mesh as a barrier between herself and the dog, Suzanne slowly maneuvered across the dry grass to grab Toni.
“Don’t let him bite me!” Toni chattered, clutching Suzanne’s arm in a vise grip as the dog jumped and barked at them.
“We’re gonna be okay!” Suzanne shrilled as, together, they crab-stepped backward.
“Doesn’t he know we love dogs?” asked Toni.
“I don’t think anybody’s ever shown this guy love,” said Suzanne.
“Well, if he’d just be nice ...” said Toni.
But the wily dog continued to snap and dart at them, driving them at a crazy angle, causing them to retreat deeper and deeper into the nearby woods.
“But my car’s thataway,” said a frantic Toni. “What are we gonna do, climb a tree?”
“Then we’ll just be treed game,” said Suzanne. “No, look for a stick or some kind of club.”
“You want to club him? Doesn’t that constitute animal cruelty?”
Think of it as extreme self-defense!” said Suzanne. She was a dog lover, but she loved her own hide, too.
“Listen,” said Toni, her hands still clutched around Suzanne’s waist, “you hear that burbling? We’re going to end up at the creek.”
“That’s not good,” said Suzanne, wishing they could find a hunk of wood or piece of metal to club the dog with and render it senseless.
“Okay,” said Toni, “my boots just hit mud.”
“I feel it,” said Suzanne, as dampness started to seep into her shoes.
“Gonna be kind of cold for swimming,’’ Toni warned.
“Unless...” Suzanne took her eyes off the slavering dog to look around quickly.
“Not even a dock,” mourned Toni.
“But there’s a canoe!”
“What?”
“Just to your left, an old wooden canoe.”
“Holy moley!” said Toni.
They edged their way left, until Toni was able to reach out and touch a hand to it.
“Think it floats?” asked Suzanne.
“We’ll cross that stream when we come to it!”
“Flip it over,” Suzanne urged, still fending off the dog. ‘Try to get it partially into the water!”
Toni bent quickly to her left, let loose an inelegant grunt, and flipped the canoe right side up. She grabbed the two paddles, tossed them into the canoe, and with a mighty push, sent it halfway into the river.
“Got it!” Toni yelled, as she struggled to hold the canoe in place against the fast-moving current.
“You jump in first,” said Suzanne, “then I’ll push off.”
Toni made a leap of faith, landed squarely in the middle of the canoe, then struggled her way to the bow. “I’m in!”
Suzanne backed up into ankle-deep water, took one last look at the angry canine, then in one swift move, thrust the screen at him as she jumped in, too.
Grabbing a paddle, Suzanne pushed off hard, just as the dog splashed in after them.
But the current of the Catawba River caught them, mercifully spinning them around and pointing them downriver. In seconds they were carried swiftly away.
As they floated down the Catawba River, buffeted by the various eddies and swirls, Toni glanced back nervously and asked, “Can dogs swim?”
Chapter Twenty Five
“You’re lucky you didn’t get rabies,” Petra scolded.
They were all three sitting on a hard wooden church pew in Pilgrim’s Church, waiting for Wilbur Halpern’s funeral to begin. Wilbur’s family had elected to forego a funeral home and have a final viewing at the church.
“I guess the dog’s bark was worse than his bite,” said Suzanne, trying to make light of what had been a harrowing situation.
“How did you two even get home?” Petra asked.
“That was the easy part,” said Toni. “Eventually we just floated into town. When we hit Bluff Creek Park, we ditched the canoe and walked home.”
“What about your car?” Petra may have been worried, but she was also curious.
Toni grinned. “I called Junior and told him to go out there and tow it.” She paused. “And pick up some pumpkins, too.”
“Good thinking,” said Suzanne.
“You called Doogie?” Petra asked. ‘Told him about the dogs?” She glanced toward the front of the church where Sheriff Doogie, sitting ramrod stiff in his dress uniform, shared a pew with Wilbur Halpern’s family. They were, in turn, surrounded, by other sheriff’s deputies, state patrol officers, police officers, and firemen from the tri-county area and beyond who had shown up this morning to bid farewell to a fallen brother.
“I spoke to one of his deputies first thing this morning,” said Suzanne. “He promised to tell Doogie as well as rustle up animal control and the local humane society. He said they might even try to stake it out—figure out who owns those poor creatures, since dogfighting is a felony.”
“Shh,” said Toni, putting a finger to her lips. “The funeral.”
The double doors in the back of the church suddenly creaked open, a cue for the organist to hit the first bars of the “Funeral March” from Beethoven’s Sonata no. 12. Mourners scrambled to their feet, shuffled, and turned to watch the sad procession file in.
Six uniformed sheriff deputies, looking both stricken and solemn, wheeled the flag-draped mahogany casket down the aisle.
“Oh dear.” Petra lifted a crumpled hanky to her mouth.
Toni oozed a silent tear.
Suzanne thought, Doggone, if I’d only gotten to Wilbur five minutes earlier.
Reverend Falk came out to meet the coffin. He laid his hands gently upon it, watched as the pallbearers seesawed it into place, then launched into his opening benediction.
Suzanne folded her arms across her black funeral suit and hugged herself tightly. Today, Wilbur Halpern was being celebrated as a true hero. A man who had died in the line of duty. But what a terrible price to pay for that honor!
Suzanne wanted to cry, but didn’t. Crying was a fine release of emotions and endorphins, of course, but it did nothing to help bring about justice. And that’s what Suzanne was most interested in for Wilbur. And for Chuck Peebler, too. Capture whatever madman was lurking out there and bring him to a swift and awful justice.
Letting loose a silent sigh, Suzanne saw that Toni was digging in her purse for Kleenex. In fact, there didn’t seem to be a dry eye in the house. Except for her. This funeral was a necessary tribute, of course, but she was more anxious for closure in the form of arrests, sentencing, and prison terms.
Harsh, but true.
As Wilbur’s uncle took the podium to talk about Wilbur’s life and devotion to family, Suzanne’s mind continued to race. She thought about Chuck Peebler again. About his sad, empty house and his strange note about Tortuga. She thought about poor Scruff, the dog she’d picked up the night she’d discovered Deputy Halpern. Scruff must have been one of a number of hapless dogs tossed into the ring to tangle with the fighting dogs. A sort of sparring partner except poor Scruff, who was a docile, gentle guy, had been expected to lose!
Doogie’s cough, meant to clear his throat, brought Suzanne back to the moment at hand. Doogie stood poised at the podium now, gazing at Wilbur’s casket as he nervously unfolded a single sheet of paper. Smoothing it out, he glanced about the church, then began his tribute to Wilbur Halpern. He spoke of Wilbur’s patriotism and civic pride. Of how proud Wilbur had been to serve as a deputy and how he’d glowed with happiness at earning his various medals. How Wilbur had gone out of his way to help people, even driving a couple of elderly residents to the Westvale Medical Clinic when they couldn’t find a ride.
Suzanne was surprised at the dignity and gentleness of Doogie’s tribute. But when he began to relate a story about Wilbur going on patrol, Doogie’s voice turned hoarse and papery, and he began to choke.
Reverend Falk improvised expertly. He thanked Doogie for sharing his fine words and memories, then gazed out over the crowd of mourners, requested that everyone kindly stand, and launched into the Lord’s Prayer.
That was pretty much the signal that the service had concluded. The organist played “Dust in the Wind,” which had apparently been one of Wilbur’s favorite songs. The pallbearers snapped to attention and wheeled the coffin down the aisle and out into the thin October sunlight.
