by Martin Clark
Lisa opened the door and stepped onto the porch. She called the dog’s name several times. She walked to his box, stooped and stuck her head inside. “Did you hear anything, Joe?” she asked as she stood.
“Nothing. He hasn’t been for a ramble in years. Usually, he eats and crashes in his house.”
“I don’t mean to seem paranoid, but I can’t help wondering if somebody took him.”
“Who would take him?” Joe asked. “And why?”
“Do I need to paint you a picture? How about the same people who are antagonizing Dr. Downs? A dog would be very minor given their history.”
“Well, honestly, it did go through my mind, but it doesn’t make any sense. What do they gain?”
“So, okay, two days ago we give Pichler the ultimatum and insist we talk to his boss, and now our dog vanishes. It’s a coincidence?” She put her hands on her hips. “It’s not as if we’re swapping briefcases with Walter and the Dude, Joe. Benecorp probably sent people here to kill Lettie.”
“The timing seems screwy, and it feels too soon and too small and too indirect for them. But, for sure, I thought of it.”
She went with him, and they searched and hollered and drove the truck slowly to the highway, shouting “Brownie!” and “Here, boy!” from the windows, and they trudged to the creek at the border of their property and followed it for a mile in each direction, zigzagging for an hour through briars, mountain laurels, ditches and pine thickets. They didn’t find the dog. They visited their neighbors, who were generous and sympathetic but hadn’t seen Brownie. Their neighbor Taylor even offered to let them use his Gator if they needed it, so they could drive to the bottoms where he cut hay, cover more territory. They phoned the radio station, the pound, the newspaper, the police.
Before the noon closing time, they hurried to the dump. The recycling shed was a three-sided structure with an unpainted tin roof and rusted metal supports. As Joe eased the truck parallel to the shed, Lisa noticed a man and a woman were leaning over one of the huge recycling containers, methodically inspecting the newspapers, magazines, catalogs, inserts and store flyers. The woman was wearing tinted glasses, and the man was dressed in a red Lacoste golf shirt. They both greeted Joe as he walked past them, said a few words. A Volvo station wagon was parked by the shed, evidently belonged to the scavengers.
“What’s up with the couple digging through the bins?” she asked Joe when he’d finished emptying the tubs and returned to the truck.
“Coupons. People come here and fish them out.” He put the truck in gear.
“Seriously?”
“Yep. Sign of the times, I suppose. Though I understand there’re experts on the subject who write blogs and articles, and they promote the idea. Makes it a little less embarrassing.”
Lisa studied the man and woman. “Do you know them?”
“He’s Colin Hanover. Used to be a supervisor at Tultex, before it closed. Nice guy from all reports. His wife’s named Janie or Jamie or something close to that. They’re here a lot.”
“Damn,” Lisa said. “How sad.”
Joe released the clutch and steered them toward the green boxes, and before they stopped moving Lisa’s BlackBerry sounded, mimicked an old-fashioned telephone ring. “Maybe that’s news on Brownie,” she said. She answered and said “Hello” and “Yes” and listened and tilted her head and shot Joe a concerned look and concentrated her lips into a thin, tense line. She asked the caller to wait a minute while she switched to speaker so her husband could hear. She took the phone from her ear and hit buttons from memory, three fast taps. “So you’re with Benecorp?” she said.
“Actually, I report to Mr. Seth Garrison, who owns the corporation.” The voice was on speaker.
“And your name?” Lisa asked. “What’s your name? I didn’t quite catch it.”
“Elizabeth Briggs,” the woman answered. “Am I successfully on speaker now?”
“Yes,” Lisa said.
“Then good morning to you as well, Mr. Stone.”
“Hi,” Joe said.
“Mr. Garrison asked me to contact you regarding your request to discuss the VanSandt property. I wanted to schedule a time and circumstances that would suit you both.”
“Why don’t you just hand him the phone?” Lisa asked.
“Oh, no,” Briggs replied. She laughed. She was condescending, haughty, the laugh a string of monotone hahs that translated to “I think you are a pitiful, dumb creature.” “That’s impossible for many reasons.” She repeated the laugh.
“Could you do that again?” Lisa asked her.
“Pardon? Do what?”
“The laugh. It’s the oldest wicked stepsister, right? Or Madonna, the 2005 version with the fake British accent?”
“I’m not positive I’m following you, Mrs. Stone. I didn’t mean to insult you. But it is amusing you’d think someone as busy and influential as Mr. Garrison is standing here beside me, waiting for me to bring you to the phone.”
“Okay, fine, when will he call?” Joe asked from across the truck.
“Mr. Garrison rarely does business over the phone. He would prefer to see you and Mrs. Stone in person.”
“When and where?” Lisa was holding the BlackBerry between them, near the truck’s roof so as not to break the connection.
“We have two options. We could schedule you for next week, the week of June seventeenth, for a meeting in Virginia Beach. We also have a week in the middle of July available in Florida. Key West.”
“Why there?” Lisa asked.
“Mrs. Stone,” Briggs sniffed, “Mr. Garrison is a Canadian resident and a citizen of the world. He’s the eleventh richest man on earth. His itinerary for the next months is set. It does not bring him near Henry County, Virginia. However, Mr. Garrison does regret the inconvenience and would be pleased to pay for your travel and accommodations.”
“So he really has agreed to meet with us?” Lisa asked.
“Hence my call,” Briggs said.
“Why are you calling us today, on a Saturday, on my personal phone?”
“It was the next item on my list,” Briggs told her. “I used your cell because I didn’t expect to find you at your office. Your delightful assistant, Betty, gave the number to our Mr. Pichler. Here we all are.”
“For sure, we’ll be meeting with Garrison himself?” Joe asked. “Not some flunky, not his vice president of alchemy and jabberwocky.” He nudged the truck forward. They were three vehicles away from the Dumpsters.
“You’ll be meeting with Mr. Garrison personally,” Briggs promised.
“There’s nothing closer than the beach?” Lisa asked.
“No. As I mentioned, we’re more than willing to underwrite your travel.”
“We’ll scrape together our pennies,” Joe said. “Thanks just the same.”
“I understand,” Briggs said.
“Joe and I will check our calendars and see what we can do. Where would we meet if we choose Virginia Beach?”
“Mr. Garrison’s helicopter would collect you at the airport and land you on his ship, where he’s based.”
“If we opt for Key West, we’ll have to wait over a month?” Joe asked.
“Yes, sorry.”
“And there’s really no chance we could simply talk over the phone?” Joe asked. “Why not?”
“Seth Garrison has his own rules, Mr. Stone. I don’t create them, nor am I able to modify them.”
“Let me write down your number,” Lisa said, “and we’ll confirm something Monday. We’re distracted right now—our dog is missing. You can imagine how upset we are.”
“Certainly,” Briggs said sweetly. “I’m sorry to hear it. I own two corgis myself. Best of luck to you.”
“What do you think?” Lisa asked once she clicked off. She’d jotted the number in blue ink on her palm.
“I don’t know—be careful what you ask for, huh? It’s significant that he’ll see us, but this feels like a wild-goose chase. A dead-end, exhausting detour. Like
he’s fucking with us. We drive the miserable five hours to the coast, he jollies us up and humbly pours us cups of expensive tea, charms us with stories about whales and seals, tells us a few lies about Lettie and off we go, no wiser than we were. What exactly do we gain? We’ll also have to either be dishonest or admit we don’t actually own the Wound Velvet, that he already has everything thanks to his contract with dipshit Neal.”
“Yeah,” Lisa said. “It’s a long trip. If we could get him on the phone, it would be helpful. But this…”
“I guess we can think about it. Maybe we ought to stay a few days and make it a vacation.”
“I’d pick Key West for a vacation, but I don’t want to delay everything until then.”
Joe pulled up to the Dumpsters, and the two of them slung the bags into a squat green container, heard glass break when the last bag banged against a metal side. The garbage stunk. A fly buzzed her ear. Crows had discovered a fetid slice of bologna and were tearing it apart, hopping and pecking on the pavement.
“I’m supposed to see Toliver on Monday,” Joe said. “I’ll ask if he thinks it’s worthwhile. I tend to think we ought to go. Nothing to lose.”
“If we’re not here on Thursday, I’ll have to reschedule my meeting with Montana and her new teacher. It makes me seem unreliable. I hate to miss the first appointment. I was planning to take her shopping too. Buy her some summer clothes. Her shiftless father’s in rehab again.”
“You’ve been doing that program for years and volunteered for everything under the sun. I hardly think they’ll be upset. It’s June. School starts in August. And you can buy clothes every day of the week.”
“We’ll have to see if Erica can house-sit and feed the horse and give Brownie his…” She stopped. “His medicine.”
She and Joe drove directly back to the farm, and for a second time they searched everywhere they knew to look, kept at it, hunted along the creek, honked the horn all the way to the main road, crisscrossed the woods calling Brownie’s name, crawled behind the square bales of hay and shined the flashlight, circled Foy Rice’s pond, Joe with his hands cupped around his eyes so he could see into the shallows. Nothing. Lisa was so miserable she couldn’t eat dinner, and soon after sunset, at nine-thirty or thereabouts, she dozed off on the sofa, woke near midnight and couldn’t fall back asleep, then went upstairs and lay in the dark bedroom, hot and uncomfortable, the sheets and counterpane shoved aside, a random cloud occasionally smearing across the moon. Her cake was abandoned in its bowl, neglected, a lumpy pink swamp, the batter dried fast to the mixer blades, a chore to scrub.
She finally went under, a forced, translucent sleep too near the surface, some portion of her still tethered to her surroundings, but she didn’t sense Joe leaving the room, didn’t realize he was gone. At daybreak, she heard him downstairs shutting the front door, and she was quickly alert and pulling on the same shorts from Saturday, scooting into her flip-flops. She was starting the stairs when she spotted Joe coming toward her from the kitchen. “Found him,” he said.
“Is he okay? Where was he? Is he hurt?”
“Come on,” he told her, beckoning with his hand.
Lisa held the banister and clopped down the remaining steps. Brownie was in the den, lying on the rug in front of the fireplace, a favorite location during the winter months. He looked up at her and thumped his tail. He opened his mouth and panted, licked his black lips, sighed.
“He was at the far end of the pasture,” Joe said. “Buried in a patch of broom straw a few yards outside the fence. I’ll bet we came damn close to stepping on him ten times yesterday.”
“Which end?” Lisa asked. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
“By the big oak that got hit by lightning. The split oak.”
“He had to hear us, Joe. Is he hurt? Can he walk?”
“Yeah. He’s weak, but he can walk. I came within five feet of him, and he didn’t even stir. He didn’t want to be found.”
“Huh? Why?”
“It’s what they do, sweetie. They wander off to die. He didn’t want us to bother him. I’m sure he heard us. Hell, he could’ve walked back to the house whenever he wanted. I remember when my father’s old bluetick did exactly the same thing. Daddy found him two days later in the corner of a tobacco barn and called Dr. Witt to put him down. Left him where he lay, and he and the doc walked to the barn and put him to sleep.”
“Maybe Brownie was disoriented. He takes all that medicine.”
“I suppose it’s possible.”
Lisa dropped to all fours and rubbed her nose across the dog’s. “Hey, good boy.” She scratched his head, stroked circles on his belly. “I’ll cook him some eggs. And I’m going to call Dr. Withers. I don’t care if it is Sunday; this is an emergency.”
The vet was polite and understanding, especially given the early hour. “The theory,” he said after Lisa explained why she was calling, “is basically anecdotal, but unfortunately it’s frequent and recurring. We know for sure that many animals seek a quiet, confined place to die, especially cats. There’s really no clinical data to support the notion, but from my experience there’s an absolute correlation. I’d suggest keeping him inside or walking him on a leash. Make sure he has plenty of fresh water.” Withers offered to drive to their farm and have a look at him, though he assured her there probably wasn’t much he could accomplish medically. They finally agreed she’d bring the dog to his clinic early the next morning, and he’d see them before business hours, 7:30 on the dot.
Brownie was listless for the rest of the day. He did eat chunks of scrambled eggs when Lisa held them to his mouth, but he didn’t show much enthusiasm for the food. “He seems so sad, Joe,” she said. “I hope he’s not suffering.”
Monday, she and Joe were at the vet’s a few minutes early, before the doctor arrived. They walked to the clinic’s entrance with Withers, and Joe had to pick Brownie up and carry him when he balked at the threshold and stubbornly collapsed and refused to stand. Withers probed the dog’s chest with a stethoscope, shined a light in his ears and mouth, then shaved his foreleg and pierced him with a needle to draw blood. Stung by the needle, Brownie yelped and jerked.
“He does seem to be declining,” the doc said solemnly, confirming what they already knew. “I’m concerned the blood work won’t be too promising, especially his liver function. We’ll just have to do our best and make prudent decisions.”
While they were talking, Brownie licked at the white, pallid spot on his leg, took two or three lethargic passes and quit. He lay flat and closed his eyes. The very tip of his tongue remained outside his mouth, a pink sliver against his black muzzle. At the end of the visit, he bit the vet’s Milk-Bone treat, crunched it and broke it and partially ate it, but left the majority in pieces on the silver metal examination table, crumbs and dry tan bits. Joe stoically toted him back to the truck. Lisa let him ride in the cab, curled in her lap, his nose pointed toward Joe, a paw touching his thigh. Neither of them spoke, until Joe said he would take Brownie to the office, even if he had to carry him all the way from the truck and even if the dog had to piss on the floor.
—
Joe was finishing a call to a client and folding his cell phone shut when he walked into Toliver’s office at the Henry County Sheriff’s Office later that morning. The cop was seated behind his desk, studying a file and marking sections of a report with a yellow highlighter.
“Whoa there, Johnnie Cochran, what you holdin’?”
“What? Huh?” Joe asked. “And I’m white. The reference doesn’t work. I’d be Shapiro or Barry Scheck.”
“Where’d you find the fossil phone? That’s a TracFone, isn’t it? The LG cheapie from Walmart.”
“So?”
“Seriously? You’re sportin’ the thirty-bucks-a-month TracFone from Walmart? You, the seasonal Mexicans, the food stamp artists and the wannabe drug dealers. I was kidding your wife not long ago about her BlackBerry, which is already nearly the same as a cassette tape, but this is feeble,
even for you.”
“All I need is a phone, Toliver. I have a computer at my house and office, I don’t text, I don’t play online games, I don’t take photos and I’m not on Facebook or Twitter. Tell me again why I need an expensive phone and a draconian service plan? I don’t even use the minutes I have. As we say in the legal world, the phone is a sword for me, not a shield. I rarely turn it on. I’m bothered enough as it is by people wanting free advice while I’m trying to eat dinner in a restaurant or buy a loaf of bread at the grocery store.”
“Sure, Joe. You could have a horse and buggy too.” Toliver grinned. “Wait, you sorta do. I saw you on your scooter last week. Easy Rider Stone. Still makes me laugh, especially now that you’ve put the basket on the handlebars. Me, I’m state of the art. New Droid. Amazin’ technology. I don’t have the luxury of switchin’ it off. Crime don’t take a holiday.”
Joe adjusted a chair and sat down. “Did you ever look into that e-mail from the library? Supposedly sent by Lettie?”
“Yeah, damn, I went over there, and they stubbed up on me and really didn’t want to help. It’s fallout from the Patriot Act and all that shit. Can’t say I blame them. I talked to Hal and told him it was for you and that we didn’t need to know what anybody was readin’ and we already had the contents of the e-mail and we’re not Big Brother tryin’ to pry into somebody’s business. Plus Lettie’s dead, so we won’t be bruisin’ her feelings. He finally agreed to check the sign-in log for the computers, and she was in fact there when the e-mail was sent. You want more information than that, you’re on your own. He told me last Wednesday. I was plannin’ to give you the news next time we crossed paths.”
“Thanks,” Joe said. “I don’t have much doubt that it’s authentic.” He stood and leaned against the wall. He focused on the policeman. “I promised you I’d keep you up to speed if we discovered anything criminal in Lettie’s situation. I think we’re there now. I believe she was killed.”
“Ah, okay. Gotcha.” Toliver chuckled. “What you’re actually sayin’ is that you’ve chased this as far as you can, and as a last resort you want me to help you find something that you can’t find by yourself. Do some grunt work. Misuse my authority for your advantage.”
