Pursue

by Vella Munn

  No way was she going to get out here, because she’d have to walk around chicken carcasses in order to reach the hound. She prayed they were all dead. The thought of having to finish them off made her even sicker to her stomach. If James had been here he’d have had a fit because she was backing up, turning to the right, heading around back. She’d never understood his insistence that they stay on gravel. It wasn’t as if there was anything worth admiring.

  She couldn’t say what she intended to do, maybe find proof that the hound wasn’t where he was supposed to be. Once she’d done that, she’d call James and—no, not James, who’d want the complete story in exacting detail. He wasn’t here, wasn’t the one who had to look at the destruction.

  The mutt was a killing machine. He’d slaughtered twenty-some chickens. He needed to die.

  Late in the day as it was, she had to work at distinguishing exactly what was or wasn’t in the trees. She’d seen the hound there so many times that at first she was certain nothing had changed. Then Tinkerbell’s nails again dug into her thighs. Planted securely in reality, she gripped the steering wheel with cold fingers.

  No sign of the hound.

  “Of course he isn’t there,” she said so she’d hear her voice. “What did you expect?”

  But how had he managed to get free?

  Curiosity warred with dread as she rolled up the window and turned off the engine. More than once she’d tried to get James to exchange the cable for a chain, arguing that eventually the plastic covering would wear out, but the man could be so damned stubborn and she wasn’t going to take responsibility for his mutt. Let the dog run away. It would serve James right.

  She’d been furious at him more times than she could count during the separation. That anger opened the door and planted her feet on the ground. Because she sometimes got to work before the grocery store opened, she had a concealed gun permit to go with the Ruger she kept in her purse. She reached back in and extracted the weapon.

  “Oh no,” she said when Tinkerbell tried to jump out. “You’re staying where you’re safe. I just want to see what happened to the cable. Then we’re leaving.”

  Walking with the pistol in both hands took her full concentration. Her heart was doing things a normal heart shouldn’t and the prickling sensation on her back was getting worse. She didn’t want to be curious after all. She wanted to be surrounded by steel or whatever the Chevy was made of.

  Only a few more steps and the shadows wouldn’t be conspiring to keep anything from her. The car wasn’t far away and Tinkerbell was yipping like a madwoman, grounding her even as she wanted to yell at her dog to shut up.

  “What the hell?”

  The cable was still wrapped around the tree, or at least what remained of it was. It didn’t take a brain surgeon to figure out what had happened. Someone had cut the cable and freed the hound.

  But why?

  Had whoever freed the mutt taken him? Had he run away? If so, who or what had killed the chickens?

  Not long ago everyone in the county and beyond had been obsessed over three men who had been attacked by some wild dogs. People like James and Lucky insisted they weren’t smart enough to be able to blow away the killer dogs. The ‘they’ was vague but mostly James and Lucky were talking about the Fish and Wildlife officers she understood had been involved from the beginning. She was used to her husband and brother badmouthing anyone associated with law enforcement and the government and mostly tuned them out. She had been as horrified and fascinated by the attacks as anyone. It was impossible to separate facts from rumor. Mostly she’d been relieved there’d been no sign of the dogs for months.

  Okay, think. One thing she was pretty sure of, the big mutts weren’t responsible for what had happened to the cable.

  Her hands shook as she tucked her gun under her arm, pulled out her cell phone and took pictures. James would jump all over her for not getting closer, but if he was so damn curious, he could do this. She’d photograph some chicken carcasses followed by getting the hell out of here.

  It felt as if someone had glued a brick to her heart. That wasn’t as bad as the lack of feeling in her legs or how she couldn’t hold the phone still. Fighting the moisture pooling in her mouth, she held the phone and Ruger against her chest and spun around so her back was to where the hound had spent his life. Something to her left caught her attention. Trying to key into James’ moods had taught her to be on the alert and not let panic turn her stupid. Just the same, the brick was getting heavier and her legs remained numb.

  Whatever she’d spotted moved. A squeak escaped her but she’d be damned if she’d run. Not only was she afraid she’d fall, lessons learned kicked in. If she cried or begged, those things fed James’ need to dominate, but if she stood her ground, he eventually acted like she wasn’t important enough to waste his time on.

  That’s what she’d do. Walk cool as a cucumber back to the car. Not bother with chicken carcass pictures. Start the engine and get the hell out of here.

  A growl, low and long, slammed against her ears. She might have intended to scream but nothing came out. Terror both melted and ignited her muscles. She broke into an awkward run. Her ankle twisted, forcing her to throw out her arms to keep from falling. The gun and phone hit the ground.

  She had to wrap her fingers around the weapon! Tinkerbell frantically scratched at the window as if begging her to hurry, hurry, hurry.

  Still to her left, closer now, big and gray, lean substance taking over her world. Slamming into her and sending her to the ground on her belly. A scream erupted from deep in her chest as she struggled to cover her head with her arms.

  Something bored into her right forearm with so much force she was afraid whatever it was would meet in the middle. It didn’t hurt so much as shock and imprison her. My eyes! Whatever it took, she had to protect her eyes.

  The monster-beast released her forearm then punctured the other. Whatever was attacking her seemed to be taking longer with this second attack, maybe relishing its power.

  Hot moisture drenched her arms and the back of her head. She smelled foul breath. Her spine bent backward under her captor’s weight.

  “Help! Help! Oh god, help!”

  Another growl challenged her ability to think. This sound wasn’t as deep, almost as if whatever creature was responsible for it was laughing.

  Was laughing because it thought killing her was funny?

  “Help! Dear god, help!”

  A rough tongue swiped the back of her neck and her bladder released. With her face flattened on the ground, she couldn’t see what was happening and yet she knew.

  One of the killer dogs had found her.

  Was pulling so hard on her hair she was being scalped.

  “Not this way! Oh please, not this way!”

  The dog closed its teeth around her right wrist and crushed it.

  She screamed and tried to jam the fingers of her left hand into her attacker’s eye. That was when she spotted two other dogs bounding toward her.

  * * * *

  “Are you thinking about going out there before dark?” Darick asked Hank. Ever since he’d had lunch with Niko, he’d been trying to convince himself to stay out of the situation. Not only might she get angry if he contacted Hank without letting her know, this wasn’t his business. Granted, he’d immediately done so when she’d asked him to meet her at the vet’s office, but she didn’t need or want him doing more than that.

  Unfortunately, getting involved was practically in his DNA. That, in large part, was why he’d had to have his back worked on. Also, he knew more about the grays than he wished he did.

  “Yeah, I am,” the cruelty investigator said. “Why? Are you volunteering to come with me?”

  “You’d be going alone?”

  Hank’s chuckle held no warmth. “I can’t ask the police to run interference. Checking on a bunch of chickens with nothing to eat or drink plus a dog with an embedded collar doesn’t add up to the kind of crime they get involved in. Now if
I had a warrant—hell, I wouldn’t turn you down if you’re offering.”

  Don’t. Keep your nose out of it. “I’m offering.”

  “Good.” Hank sounded relieved. “What time is it? What if I meet you at the turnoff to Tamel Road in twenty, twenty-five minutes?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “I owe you a beer.”

  As he put his cell away, Darick tried not to overthink what he’d just committed himself to, but if it came down to having to explain to Niko why he’d made the decision he had, he’d remind her of what had happened, or rather what hadn’t happened, because he hadn’t been there when Jeff and Mia had found what was left of Ram. The grays had torn the deer poacher apart, leaving Jeff and Mia to deal with the grisly scene by themselves because his back had been so stiff he hadn’t been able to get out of bed.

  Hank wasn’t going to have to stare at carnage by himself, but in case things got a little dangerous, Hank could rely on someone who knew what risking his life was like.

  That, maybe, was what he’d tell Niko.

  * * * *

  “You want the truth? I’m not sure how much longer I can do this,” Hank said.

  “Your job can’t be easy.”

  Hank took his attention off the road long enough to stare at Darick. “Don’t.”

  “Don’t what?”

  “Give me a half response. I figured you’d understand where I’m coming from better than most. You deal with poachers and bastards who set illegal traps and don’t check on them for days. Even if we’re able to make a charge stick, the guilty party usually gets off with a fine. The cat hoarder I dealt with last year—the judge ruled she was mentally ill and locking her up wasn’t the answer.”

  “You don’t agree?”

  “That isn’t the point.” Hank’s expression was grim. “I’m the one who had to go in after thirty-three wild cats. They were covered in fleas and about half had infected ears. Most had respiratory and eye problems. In the end we had to euthanize all but a few kittens because they couldn’t be socialized. The whole time I was in there, the woman insisted she was giving them excellent care. The place smelled like the hell it was. How she could live there and not— It’s things like that that get to me.”

  Hank was in his mid-forties, with a wife and two school-age girls who were his whole life. He might’ve been able to talk to his wife about some of the things he had to deal with. His daughters probably thought he got cats out of trees and reunited lost dogs with grateful owners. There was some of that, but maybe it didn’t balance out against things like thirty-three wild cats trapped in hell.

  “Your job probably gets you closer to that kind of thing than mine does,” he said as they neared the drive to the first house on Tamel Road. “Mostly I deal with license violations and poaching.”

  “And the occasional poacher who leaves a cow elk with a bullet in her and a calf about to become an orphan.”

  That had happened just once. Fortunately, if it could be called that, Mia had put the cow out of her misery and a gray had broken the doomed calf’s neck. Not long after, the grays had made the young poacher pay. He hadn’t been the only victim.

  “Is Niko in trouble?” he asked. “She had no right to take that dog.”

  “I don’t fault her for what she did. I might have done the same.”

  Part of why he’d wanted to see Hank was so he could ask what he just had. Getting a fuller answer would have to wait because they’d reached where Niko had said she’d found the dog and freed the chickens. They drove in silence until the doublewide came into view.

  “Oh shit,” Hank muttered. “Ah, shit.”

  Darick knew what he was looking at before his brain recorded the fact. Maybe Hank felt the same way, because he didn’t say any more as he parked within a few feet of a trio of dead chickens. Others were scattered around.

  You don’t want to see this, Darick silently told Niko. Letting those chickens out doomed them.

  “I’m going to have to take pictures,” Hank said at length. “Then collect some of the carcasses and determine how they died.”

  Darick already had a good idea what had happened, as witnessed by the feathers and blood, but couldn’t make himself say anything. Chickens were pretty stupid creatures, but he had a soft spot for them because his mother had kept hens for the eggs they produced. He’d hated having to collect the eggs because he sometimes got pecked, but Mom had said he shouldn’t blame the hens for being protective. He liked the sounds they made and how they chased bugs. He’d even named some of them. Mom had cried when one died, and her reaction had made him cry as well, in private.

  “What can I do?” he asked.

  “You’ve done investigations. Be another pair of eyes.”

  Hank was breathing heavily and his mouth was a hard slash. Determined to ignore the boy he’d once been, Darick got out. His intention had been to look for prints, but the sound of flies was getting to him. The scene was a fly smorgasbord, too much like what he’d had to deal with more than once when it came to road kill.

  “Not good,” Hank muttered as he reached into the back seat for a video camera. “Not the hell good.”

  If he’d still been new on the job, he would have peppered Hank with questions, but he’d learned to keep his mind open and mouth shut while assessing a scene. His cell phone wasn’t as effective as a video camera, and he wasn’t sure what he’d do with the pictures and short video clips he intended to take, but he couldn’t just stand there.

  It didn’t appear as if anyone was around. Still, Hank climbed the weathered stairs and knocked on the door. When no one responded, Hank scanned the scene before locking his gaze on Darick.

  Shit, his expression said. I don’t want to be doing this.

  Neither did Darick, which, maybe, was why he’d leaned against the vehicle instead of walking around. The sound of flies didn’t completely drown out the breeze. Maybe he should’ve been grateful for the touch of normalcy, but all those dead chickens made that impossible. While Hank took a video of the scene from his vantage point, Darick forced himself to concentrate on the closest hen. Her neck was obviously broken and a leg had been torn off. He hoped she’d died fast but so much blood had been flung around that he was afraid she hadn’t.

  As Hank descended the stairs, Darick pushed away from the vehicle and crouched over the legless chicken. He noted tire tracks that appeared to be heading toward the back of the trailer, but they could have been there for weeks.

  A chunk had been ripped out of the chicken’s chest. The hole was ragged and dark with flies. He breathed through his nose.

  “Dogs,” Hank said.

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’ve seen it before. There’s a pack that’s been doing stuff like this for several years. They’re either strays or their owners don’t want them anymore.” Hank grunted. “I’ve trapped several and taken them out of circulation, but other dogs join the pack. The really wild ones teach the newcomers.”

  “What do you mean, take them out of circulation?”

  Hank positioned the video camera within a couple of feet of a chicken. “Come on, you don’t have to ask. They were as wild as the hoarder’s cats. The thing is, the pack’s never been seen in this part of the county. Darick?”

  “What?”

  “Do you think the grays could have done this?”

  “I don’t want to consider the possibility.”

  “Why not?”

  “Jeff and I have what we think is a pretty complete file on the grays. We’ll share it with you, of course, but this isn’t their usual behavior.”

  “There’s nothing ‘usual’ about what the grays have done.”

  “You know what I’m saying. They’re ruled by determination to exact revenge. Ram and Kendall were poachers while Grover Brown had abandoned his dog on Dark Mountain. That’s why the grays did what they did to the men.”

  “And that behavior eliminates them as suspects in this?”

  “I don’t know.”
I want to believe it does.

  “Yeah. Me either.” Hank slowly circled the bodies. “Let me throw this at you. If you’re looking for a poacher, you try to contact every member of his family, right? And his hunting partners.”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s what I’m doing by considering the grays.”

  Not sure what his goal was, Darick brought his phone close to the ground and took several pictures of what appeared to be dog prints.

  As Hank started documenting the scene, Darick decided to check what was behind the trailer. He was debating what to tell Niko when sunlight glinted off a car’s roof. At the same time he heard a muffled yipping. Concluding that a dog—it sounded like a little one—was inside the car, he focused on the vehicle. If whoever had left that cable around the hound’s neck was responsible for trapping a small dog inside—

  Niko had told him she’d found the hound among some trees so he shouldn’t have been surprised when he spotted them, but his initial reaction was to go no closer to them than he already was. He had no doubt he’d find some cable around a trunk as well as empty food and water bowls. It wouldn’t be as telling as the slaughtered chickens.

  The little dog sounded hoarse, giving rise to the question of how long it had been in the vehicle. Thankfully it wasn’t that warm or the dog might have died. He wanted to let it out but wouldn’t until Hank said he could. In the meantime—

  What’s your problem? You’re acting like you’re afraid of your shadow.

  The hell he was. Niko had come here by herself. He wouldn’t do anything less. The dog-holding vehicle hadn’t been here yesterday or she would have mentioned it, which meant that, maybe, the driver had seen the dead chickens. But if that was true, why hadn’t he or she called nine-one-one or something?

  Pushing his confusion aside, he approached the thicket while keeping an eye on the car. The dog was a Chihuahua, not his favorite breed, but he hated seeing it claw at the window. If it had been down, they would have heard it earlier.

  The blend of shadow and sun among the trees made determining what was there difficult. He had no choice but to continue walking. He couldn’t account for the prickling on his shoulder blades.