Mercy Dogs

by Tyler Dilts

  He’d left the message for Grace and it was time to go home. But he had little doubt he’d be back.

  You don’t see the package until you open the patio door, and at first it confuses you. Why would there be a box there? There’s no way a delivery person would have left it there. It’s not very big. Maybe eight by twelve by three inches. You bend over and pick it up. There’s a small card in a pale-blue envelope taped to the top. You pull it off and you can see the package was originally addressed to Grace. The card says, Ben—I found it! I hope you’ll let me read it. Love, Grace.

  Inside the box, after you dig your way through the inflated plastic pockets of packing material and slip off the tissue-paper wrap, you see it. The familiar back-cover copy and professorial blurbs on the gray-and-blue dust jacket. It’s in great shape, almost like new. You flip it over and read the title. Towards Our Distant Rest: World War I and Its Aftermaths. You run your fingers over your father’s name. Peter Shepard. It’s embossed, just like the title. You remember doing the same thing twenty-five years ago. Why weren’t you as impressed then as you are now?

  There’s a noise behind you, like the sole of a shoe brushing across concrete. You turn and expect to see Grace outside the studio.

  But she’s not there. Was she watching? Maybe she ducked inside. You think about going back to say thank you, but look at the book in your hands again, and without another thought, you sit down at the patio table and start reading.

  When Ben got home, he found Peter in the kitchen by the coffeepot. He had a wad of wet, brown-soaked paper towels in his hand and was wiping up a puddle on the counter.

  “Dad, what happened?”

  “I messed up.” Peter kept mopping up the spill. When the paper towels were too saturated to soak up any more coffee, he carried them, dripping a trail across the floor, to the wastebasket. Judging by the wet floor tiles, he’d made the trip a few times already.

  Ben looked at the coffee maker and the counter around it. The pot was there, as was Peter’s favorite coffee cup. Nothing appeared broken. He looked at his father’s hands. They seemed all right, no burns or scalding that he could see.

  “Can I help clean up?” Ben asked.

  Peter carried another wad to the trash. “I can do it,” he said.

  Ben fought the urge to insist. He knew he could do a better job in a quarter of the time it would take his father. But he also knew it would make Peter feel even worse.

  “Okay. I’m just going to go to the bathroom. Just a minute and I’ll be back, all right?”

  He went into his bedroom and gave Peter a few minutes to manage things for himself. When he thought enough time had passed, he went back into the kitchen. The mess on the counter was pretty much taken care of. He’d need to check it later when Peter wasn’t in the room, but it looked like he had done a good job. Apparently, though, he hadn’t noticed the half dozen drip lines splashed across the floor from one side of the room to the other.

  “What happened, Dad?” He suspected Peter had tried to get his own coffee because Ben had been away much longer than he had planned to be.

  “I was hungry. I’m sorry I messed it up.”

  “You didn’t mess anything up. It was my fault.” Ben knew he was right. It was too long to leave his father alone without anything to eat or drink. How could he have been so careless? “I should have been back a lot sooner to help you. I’m the one who’s sorry, okay?”

  Peter looked away.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I thought you weren’t going to come back.”

  “Oh, no, Dad. No.” Ben put his hands on his father’s shoulders and looked him in the eye. “I’m always coming back. No matter what.”

  “Always?”

  “Always.” Ben pulled Peter into a hug, and a few seconds later his father raised his arms and hugged him back.

  “Grace,” Ben said in the next voicemail, “I need you to call me back. Please. I don’t know what to do. If I don’t hear back from you soon, I’m going to talk to my friends again. Tell me not to. Just . . . just tell me something.”

  He stood at the patio door looking out into the gray afternoon, waiting for the rain, and running the tip of his middle finger up and down along the indentation in the back of his head.

  Jennifer had stopped at Steelhead on the way and brought a latte for Ben and a decaf mocha for Peter. She had a cup for herself, too, and Ben tried to remember what she used to drink. In the squad, it was cream and Splenda, but when they were out in the field, she always got something else. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t remember what it was.

  Peter was in the living room watching the last ten minutes of Steve Harvey and waiting for Ellen. They sat at the table in the dining room. He would have preferred the patio table outside so he wouldn’t have to worry about his father hearing something that might upset him, but Weather.com said there was a 95 percent chance of precipitation at three o’clock.

  Ben pointed at her cup and asked, “What was it you used to get when we’d go someplace for coffee?”

  “All kinds of things. I don’t really have a regular. Sometimes chai, sometimes Americano, sometimes just plain tea. Why?”

  “I thought there was something you always got. I couldn’t remember.”

  “Well, I always got it with Splenda. Could that be what you’re thinking of?”

  One corner of his mouth turned up. He hadn’t forgotten completely, so he gave himself permission to feel slightly less disappointed with his memory. He tried a sip from his cup. It was still too hot to drink.

  “What’s up?” she asked.

  “Lopez killed Rob.”

  She raised her eyebrows and tilted her head. “He did?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You sound pretty sure.”

  “Lopez is the dirty cop he was trying to make the case against in San Bernardino.”

  “Okay.” She leaned in toward him. “Tell me more about it.”

  “I don’t know much more. Did you find any other case notes or files in Rob’s room? His briefcase?”

  “There was nothing. Whoever killed him even took the safe out of his closet. Used a pry bar or something to rip it right off the shelf so they could open it later.”

  “That figures.”

  “You told us you didn’t trust Lopez when we talked. What pushed you into the accusation?”

  “I talked to Grace.”

  She was quiet a long time while her eyes drilled into his. Then she said, “Why didn’t you—”

  “I promised her I wouldn’t. That was the only way she’d talk to me.” Ben told her about the phone call and everything Grace had told him. “She was supposed to meet me at Starbucks this morning so I could give her the money.”

  “Supposed to?”

  “She didn’t show up.”

  “You think Lopez got to her?”

  “No, I think Becerra spooked her when he knocked on the door.”

  Her eyes widened. Ben couldn’t tell if she was surprised about Becerra’s visit itself or the fact that he knew about it. “I called him. He told me about it. One of the neighbors told him Kyle was out of town, so he thought it seemed like a dead end.”

  “But the neighbor didn’t say anything about Grace?”

  Ben shook his head. “I figure she’s keeping a low profile.”

  “Did you tell Becerra any of this?”

  “No. I’ve been leaving her voicemail messages, telling her it’s safe to go back. Thought if he didn’t think she was there, it might be.”

  “You don’t trust him?”

  “I do, but she doesn’t.”

  “Why are you telling me all this now? You think Lopez got to her?”

  “That’s part of it.”

  “What’s the rest?”

  “If he hasn’t found her yet and you guys can’t find anything solid on him, she really is going to have to disappear.”

  Ben still felt bad about what happened with his father earlier in the day, so he watche
d the second half hour of Ellen with him. There was a mother of quadruplets who’d made a video of herself hiding from them in her pantry. When she held the camera down to the bottom of the door and showed one of the toddlers peeking underneath and saying “Hi!” Peter laughed out loud, and for a minute Ben smiled, too.

  When the show was over, Ben helped his father with a load of laundry and reminded him to do his floor exercises.

  He paid close attention to Peter. Ben was self-aware enough to understand he wasn’t just trying to make up for his neglect that morning, but also trying to distract himself from everything weighing on him. Every minute he focused on his father was one he didn’t focus on his phone and worry about Grace.

  When he was done with his last stretch, Peter rolled up his exercise mat and stashed it in its regular spot behind his chair. “Can we walk today?”

  “I’m not sure,” Ben said. “Is it still raining?”

  Peter peeked out through the shutter on the front window and nodded sadly. “Yeah.”

  “I’m sorry, Dad. We’ll walk tomorrow, okay?”

  The corners of his mouth turned down in disappointment. “Okay.”

  And then Ben’s phone finally rang. It startled him so much that he dropped it trying to get it out of his pocket.

  “I need the money,” Grace said.

  Ben convinced her that the safest place to be right now was still in Kyle’s apartment. He said he would bring it to her as soon as Peter went to bed. She didn’t want Ben to leave him alone at night. She said she would be all right until the morning.

  Peter realized that Ben was talking about him and said loudly, “I’ll be okay. You can go.”

  “Did you hear that?” Ben asked her.

  Her voice softened. “Is that him?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Can I . . .”

  Ben went back into the living room and held the phone out to his father. “Dad, it’s Grace. She wants to say hi.”

  “Grace?” He looked unsure as he held the phone tentatively up to his ear. “Hello?”

  Leaning his head in close to his father’s, Ben was just barely able to make out her voice.

  “Hi, Pete! I miss you.”

  He looked confused. Ben wondered if he knew who she was.

  She went on. “Have you been having coffee on the patio without me?”

  His face brightened with recognition. “No, it’s been raining every day. Are you coming home?”

  There was a moment of silence before she spoke again. “I hope so. I really do.” To Ben’s ear, it sounded like she meant it.

  “Do you need some money?” Before she could reply, he turned to Ben. “I have money, don’t I?”

  Ben nodded. “I already told her we would give her some.”

  His father smiled. “Did you hear?”

  “Yes. Thank you. You guys are always really nice to me.”

  “Because you’re nice. When you get it, you’ll come home?”

  “I hope so,” she said again. “It’s really good to hear your voice, Pete.”

  “You too, you too.”

  “I’ll talk to you again soon, okay?”

  Peter nodded and handed the phone back to Ben. “He’s nodding yes. Thank you for talking to him.”

  She didn’t say anything.

  “You sure you don’t want me to come tonight?”

  “I’ll see you in the morning. Take good care of him, okay?”

  “I will,” he said, hoping she’d never find out how much he’d been screwing up in the last few days. “You call me if you need to. If you see or hear anything or you get scared. Even if you just can’t sleep. Promise me.”

  Her voice was almost a whisper. “Cross my heart.”

  Of all the things that were keeping him awake when he went to bed and tried to sleep that night, the one he obsessed over the most was the note he wrote in his journal shortly after finishing the phone call. He couldn’t remember or even imagine what he’d been thinking.

  Cross my heart

  And hope to die

  Stick a needle in my eye

  TWENTY-TWO

  “You said if I couldn’t sleep I should call.”

  The clock on the nightstand read 3:50. “I’m glad you did. I’m not sleeping, either.”

  “Really?” He thought he could hear a smirk in her voice. “’Cause you sound like you were asleep.”

  “I just nodded off for a second. Really. I’ve been tossing and turning all night.”

  “I hope that’s true.”

  “Thanks.” He chuckled.

  “No, because I won’t feel so bad for waking you up.”

  “It’s okay, Grace. Really.”

  They were silent for a few moments.

  “I don’t know what to say,” she said.

  “Tell me a story.”

  “I don’t know any.”

  “Tell me the story.”

  She did.

  Of course it was a guy. How else could something like that happen?

  And she hated herself for not seeing through him sooner. Her best friend, Lisa, knew right away. “Dude,” she’d said to Grace the night she met him, “Isn’t the first rule of grad school like Don’t date the douchebros in the MFA program?”

  If it was, nobody told her. It was her first quarter working on her master’s in art history at UC Riverside, and she met him at the first gallery show she’d gone to.

  “And what the hell kind of name is Steph for a guy, anyway?” Lisa continued. “I’ll bet you a thousand dollars his name was Steve until that basketball guy got famous. What kind of art does he do? And do not fucking say ‘digital media.’”

  She already felt too embarrassed to say anything. There was no way she was going to admit that he’d had a video installation at that first show.

  Why hadn’t she listened to Lisa?

  They’d been undergrads together at Cal State San Bernardino. When she got into the UCR grad program, Lisa got a job in an arts nonprofit and they found a small two-bedroom that was only like a twenty-minute drive north of campus.

  Things were great as long as she was able to keep Lisa away from Steph. That got harder as the weeks went on and she was seeing more and more of him. Then, after he told her his car had been stolen, it seemed like they were together more often than not. He even started leaving her alone at his place while he borrowed her Corolla. More and more, she’d wind up staying for a day or two at a time. The thought of moving in together had occurred to her, but she dismissed it. Mostly because she didn’t think Lisa would approve, and she was already feeling like they didn’t spend enough time together anymore.

  He’d borrowed the car again the day she got pulled over on her way back to the apartment. The flashing lights appeared in her rearview mirror as she was driving north on the 215. She was pretty sure she hadn’t been speeding. Or at least not going more than a few miles an hour over the speed limit like everybody else. She had been in one of the middle lanes and cars were zooming past on her left. So it couldn’t be speeding. Maybe she had a taillight out or something. As she started to pull onto the shoulder she heard the loudspeaker behind her. “EXIT THE FREEWAY.” How loud did it have to be for her to hear it with her windows rolled up? She did as she was told. The next off-ramp was maybe half a mile away. She was getting more and more nervous. But it couldn’t be anything bad. She was a good driver. Never had an accident or a moving violation. There was nothing to worry about.

  A hundred yards or so from the exit, she pulled over to the side of the road. It was a good spot. There wasn’t much traffic and it was still a ways to the shopping center ahead. She rolled down the window and waited for the officer, but no one approached her. In the mirror, she saw one officer on each side of the patrol car, standing behind their open doors.

  Something was wrong. It wasn’t supposed to go like this.

  “DRIVER, WITH YOUR LEFT HAND TURN OFF THE VEHICLE AND DROP THE KEYS ON THE GROUND OUTSIDE THE VEHICLE.”

  Oh god. Somethin
g was really wrong.

  “DRIVER, WITH YOUR LEFT HAND ONLY, UNFASTEN YOUR SEAT BELT.”

  It was going to be okay. There was obviously some mistake. She struggled to undo the buckle.

  “DRIVER, WITH YOUR RIGHT HAND OPEN THE CAR DOOR WITH THE OUTSIDE HANDLE.”

  If she stayed calm and did exactly what they told her to, it would be okay. It would. It would be okay. She reached out the window and opened the door.

  “WITH YOUR ARMS ABOVE YOUR HEAD, SLOWLY EXIT THE VEHICLE AND FACE AWAY FROM US.”

  She took a deep breath, not sure if she even could get out without using her hands. But she could. And she did.

  “TAKE TWO STEPS TO YOUR LEFT AND CLOSE THE DOOR.”

  She did.

  “KEEPING YOUR HANDS ABOVE YOUR HEAD, WALK BACKWARD TOWARD US.”

  She did.

  “STOP. KEEPING YOUR HANDS ABOVE YOUR HEAD, TURN IN A CIRCLE UNTIL INSTRUCTED TO STOP.”

  When she’d turned halfway around, she was startled to see the officer on the passenger’s side of the patrol was pointing his gun at her. But she kept turning until she was facing away from them again.

  “STOP. KEEPING YOUR HANDS ABOVE YOUR HEAD, WALK BACKWARD TOWARD US UNTIL INSTRUCTED TO STOP.”

  She counted off eight steps.

  “STOP.”

  She heard one of the officers approaching her, but still she was surprised to hear his unamplified voice.

  “Do you have any weapons or anything that might be used as a weapon?”

  “No.”

  “Guns, knives, needles, tools of any kind?”

  “No.”

  “Place your hands behind your head.”

  She had been very nervous up to that point, but the real fear set in when she felt his hands on her. First his left hand, grabbing her wrists and pinning them together behind her head, then his right, starting with each of her wrists and working its way down each arm, around her neck, her chest, under her breasts, around her waist, down each leg, and finally her crotch. She felt something catch in her throat and she knew she had been wrong. This wasn’t going to be okay at all.