A Bloodhound to Die for

by Virginia Lanier

  Finally, Jasmine nodded, her face composed in a grim expression. “I understand what you’re saying.” She stood and went to the door, opened it, started to leave, then stopped. She looked over her shoulder at me. “Thanks.”

  I felt a crack in my heart from the gratitude—and fear—that Jasmine managed to convey in the delivery of that single word.

  I waited a few moments after Jasmine left. Then I stood up, and headed for the kennel. Jasmine had to do what she had to do. And now I had to do likewise. Duty—and a meeting with Hank—called.

  Five minutes later, I was in the kennel, snapping the lead on Gulliver’s collar and talking quietly with him about our pending assignment.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  I froze at the sound of the voice—Hank’s voice. The sudden tight feeling in my chest was not the reaction I’d anticipated. I was going to be cool, right? Because I didn’t care about Hank anymore… .

  Hank’s angry words and tone of voice were also not what I’d anticipated. He was supposed to be conciliatory and groveling, humble and begging my forgiveness.

  Reality somehow never jives with my expectations of it.

  I stood up, looked at Hank, felt anger at the unbidden thought of my God, he really is as sexy as I thought, and the anger came out in my words. “I know what I’m doing,” I said, emphasizing the “know” coldly. “I’m getting Gulliver ready for our call out to search for Miz Beulah.” I gave him a small, cool smile. “Or were you just making that up to come over here and apologize?”

  I regretted the words the minute I spoke them.

  “And what the hell would I have to apologize for?” Hank asked, with a mixture of amusement and anger that infuriated me further, and destroyed any chance at all that I could act cool or detached.

  “If you don’t know, maybe the little floozie who was at your house when I called a week ago can explain it to you,” I said.

  I moved away from him, toward the door. Gulliver and I had an elderly lady to find. To hell with Hank.

  But Hank was not one to be walked away from easily. He put a hand on my arm, stopping me. I jerked away, ready to warn him to never use physical means to control me. True, his touch had been light, a brush of his hand against my arm, really—but suddenly I was in fighting mode. Any excuse to have it out with Hank would do.

  He spoke before I could, though, his amusement quickly gaining on his anger. “That floozie you refer to happens to be Marietta Mae Jones, a second cousin twice removed on my mama’s side. I haven’t seen her in twenty years. But she thought she’d stop by on her way from Florida to Ohio and say howdy.”

  I glared at Hank. “We’re not exactly a direct stop on the interstate between Florida and Ohio. Am I really supposed to believe she just wanted to say hi to her distant cousin?”

  Now Hank gave me a full-fledged grin. “Nope. She wanted to say hi, spend the night, and borrow a few hundred bucks.” He shrugged. “I gave it to her.”

  “Lovely. I’m so glad you’re so damned generous with your kin. I’d like to get over to the Burton place now—”

  “Why didn’t you just tell her who you were?”

  “Why haven’t you called?” It was the question I’d promised myself I’d never ask, but there it was. And I wanted to know—much, much more than I was willing to admit.

  Hank sighed. “Because I knew that sooner or later, something like this would happen, Jo Beth. You not trusting me. You doubting me.” He paused, sighed again, then gently traced a finger along my cheek. “You finding a reason to break us apart, because I know you, Jo Beth. You’re afraid of real relationships.” He shook his head. “The night we were together was so … good. I don’t think I can handle having that ripped away from me again and again.”

  His words were so much like Wayne’s that I flinched. But before I could react—and I wasn’t sure if I wanted to defend myself or castigate Hank for not at least talking with me about this issue—he abruptly changed the subject.

  He pointed down to Gulliver. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” It was the question that he’d opened with.

  “I’m getting a well-trained bloodhound prepped to go on a search,” I said matter-of-factly.

  “Why this bloodhound?”

  “Gulliver do something to offend you?”

  “Oh, come on, Jo Beth. You know what I’m getting at. Are you ever going to take Bobby Lee out on a search so he can exercise his God-given talents? Or are you just going to keep hiding and protecting him too?”

  Well, Hank hadn’t lived the days and nights of fear and nightmares that I had because of Bubba. Who the hell was he to judge my management of anything?

  “Go to hell, Hank,” I said quietly. “No one tells me what to do with my bloodhounds, least of all with Bobby Lee.”

  I stalked from the kennel, but Hank’s words sailed after me. “What you’re doing is wrong, Jo Beth. And you know it. Hide yourself from a real life if you want. But you don’t have any right to hide Bobby Lee from the life he was meant to live.”

  If Bobby Lee hadn’t been on the porch of my house, staring across the field at Gulliver and me as we emerged from the kennel, I don’t know how things would have turned out later. Maybe we—Hank, Bobby Lee, and me—were all destined to go through the hell we experienced over the next weeks sooner or later. Maybe not taking Bobby Lee that day would only have postponed what was meant to be. Or maybe not taking Bobby Lee that day would have meant that our lives would have taken a turn down a different path—one that, in the end, would be safer, but not the right path for any of us.

  In any case, Bobby Lee was on my porch, and he was staring at Gulliver and me. And it seemed to me that through that unspoken bond that can develop between a human and an animal, Bobby Lee was asking me, “Why? What have I done?”

  So I turned, and reentered the kennel, glaring at Hank as I started to unleash Gulliver.

  “Fine,” I said. “You’re right about one thing. Bobby Lee hasn’t been on a search in far too long and I’m taking him on this one. But, Hank, don’t you ever try to tell me my business. And get the hell off my property. I don’t need to follow you to get to the Burtons’ place, or anywhere else, for that matter.”

  24

  “Hide and Seek”

  September 4, Wednesday, Noon

  Hank, wordlessly, did get the hell off my property. Ten minutes later, I was in my truck, Bobby Lee by my side.

  I grinned, knowing how excited Bobby Lee would be to work a trail again. But I was also shaking—and hot. Maybe the shakes were because of my encounter with Hank. Or maybe from nervousness over taking Bobby Lee out again. Or maybe just a combination of all that, plus the encounter with the Lanes, with Wayne, and even my conversation with Jasmine about her never-ending quest for recognition from her mama.

  Whatever had me stirred up, when I saw the Quik-Mart I’d stopped at earlier, just ahead, I made a quick decision to pull in and treat myself to something cold and soothing. A lemon-lime Frostee might not solve my problems, but it would sure soothe them. Comfort food. Second time that day. But then, thanks to Susan and Lee, I’d never gotten to the biscuits and honey. And, I told myself, I sure didn’t want to get dehydrated during this search. Sure, I had water bottles. But lemon-lime Frostees … Oh, yes, they were well known to help prevent dehydration. At least, that’s the little white lie I told myself as I pulled into the parking lot.

  “Quick stop at the Quik-Mart,” I told Bobby Lee.

  The same dour woman was on duty. I plunked some change into the Humane Society can before she could say anything. “Another donation from my well-trained bloodhound,” I said with a grin.

  Then Bobby Lee and I went over to the self-serve Frostee machine. I had just put the lid on my drink and was unwrapping the straw when the woman came up behind me.

  “You Jo Beth Sidden?”

  I finished putting in the straw, carefully folded the straw’s paper wrapper—taking my time about it—then deposited the
wrapper in the trash bin. I turned around, looked at the woman, took a long sip of my Frostee. Ahhh. Refreshing coolness and tartness, all in one. A drink I could relate to.

  “Who wants to know?” I asked, finally.

  “Someone on the pay phone by the front door for you.”

  She walked away, toward the cash register at the counter.

  I frowned. Who would call me here? Who could possibly know about my unplanned stop? But maybe Hank had backtracked to tell me the search was off, Beulah was found, and he’d called me from his unit. It was the only explanation that made sense.

  I paid the woman, who took my money wordlessly while avoiding eye contact. I put the change, again, into the Humane Society canister, and put my Frostee on the edge of the check-out counter.

  Then I turned to the pay phone, picked up the receiver, and said, “Hank?”

  There was, for a moment, just heavy breathing on the other end. Finally, then, a voice spoke softly. Insidiously.

  “That hurts me, Jo Beth, it really does, to hear another man’s name come from your lips.”

  Oh my God. It was Jimmy Joe Lane. How had he found me here?

  “My parents told me about your visit and how poorly it went,” he said. “I don’t cotton to folks hurting my mama and daddy, not even you, Jo Beth. They were right disappointed in your lack of appreciation of their plans for us.”

  “Now, you listen to me, Jimmy Joe, there are going to be no plans for us—”

  “They’re going to keep an eye on you, Jo Beth. And if I don’t like what I hear, I may just have to have a little encounter with Bobby Lee. Just to get my point across to you. Which would make me right sad, because really, I do like Bobby Lee, and he seems to like me, and I think the three of us—”

  “Don’t you dare threaten Bobby Lee,” I said, grinding the words out through my teeth. “Don’t you dare—”

  But then the line went dead.

  I slammed down the receiver, whirled around, wanting to ask the clerk who worked here what Jimmy Joe had said to her—but the woman was gone. And I was late for my appointment to find Beulah. I grabbed my lemon-lime Frostee and headed out the door with Bobby Lee.

  We got in the truck and took off. I was shaking now, even worse than before. I grabbed the Frostee, took another long drink, but somehow, now, it didn’t seem so satisfying … or comforting.

  I was sweating profusely by the time I pulled into the Burtons’s lane.

  Pull it together, I told myself as I got out of the car. I was not only sweating, I was shaking and dizzy. Maybe the call from Jimmy Joe had just been too much to add on top of an already difficult day, I told myself.

  Tracer, I thought vaguely, as I let Bobby Lee out of the truck. I should have a tracer done on the phone call, find out where Jimmy Joe had been calling from. He was an escapee, a wanted man. And he’d threatened Bobby Lee. He’d threatened Bobby Lee… .

  “Jo Beth! Are you okay?”

  I looked up at Hank—at two Hanks, actually. I must have been coming down with something. Hank was swimming before my eyes. I was dizzy. I was sweating. And my stomach was starting to hurt.

  “I’m fine, of course I’m fine.”

  Was I hearing things too? My normally crisp tone had become almost slushy.

  “Jo Beth, you don’t look so good,” Hank said, taking me gently by my arm. “You’re unsteady. If you’re not up to the search, you should say so. It’s not a crime. We’ll find someone else—”

  “There is no one else!” I snapped. That wasn’t entirely true, of course. We could get Jasmine to do the search. I knew she’d break off her vigil at her mama’s house to help me if I asked. But I was in a prideful mood. “You wanted me to do the search with Bobby Lee, and now we’re here. We’re gonna do the search.”

  We argued a bit back and forth then, Hank and I—at least, I think we did. It’s hard to remember all the details, even now. I must have been my usual stubborn self, though, because my next clear memory is of being in the woods with Bobby Lee.

  I was so hot that I had trouble breathing. In fact, I was panting hard, following along behind my prize bloodhound. The overgrown path looked familiar—yes, this was the path that had led us to Miz Beulah on our last search.

  And Bobby Lee was in his glory—excited, nose to the ground, checking to the left and the right, clearly following Beulah’s scent…

  … yet, I didn’t remember giving Bobby Lee Beulah’s scent from her clothing or other personal item. But I must have, right?

  My stomach lurched and I realized I was in danger of throwing up. I was miserably hot, feverish. Tired. Too tired …

  I pulled up on Bobby Lee’s lead. He stopped, looked back at me.

  “Sorry,” I mumbled. “Sorry. I’m just so tired … hot… .”

  At least, that’s what I recall mumbling as I sank to the ground.

  Bobby Lee came over, whining, licking my face. I looked into his warm eyes, focused on them. Those big, soulful eyes of his. He was a searcher, I thought, and I was too. But what was I searching for? What?

  I shook my head. I knew I needed to try to think clearly. I was sick. Maybe the flu?

  But no. I’d had no symptoms until just a bit ago. And I’d had none of the warning chills that precede getting the flu.

  Food poisoning, then. I tried to think. I’d had breakfast, of course. But if breakfast was the cause, my symptoms should have kicked in a lot earlier.

  That extra biscuit with honey. But no, I hadn’t actually gotten around to my biscuit-and-honey snack. I tried to remember. No, I’d had no biscuit, or anything else …

  Except the lemon-lime Frostee.

  I stared into Bobby Lee’s eyes, our noses touching, his breath warm on my face. I knew I had to hang on to him then—because I suddenly knew we were in danger. Very, very deep danger. I couldn’t even feel the lead in my hand. I couldn’t even raise my other hand to touch Bobby Lee. I should try to get the walkie-talkie, tell Hank I needed help, but I couldn’t move.

  I could only stare into Bobby Lee’s eyes, fight to stay conscious, while a distant, tiny portion of my brain realized the awful truth—I’d been poisoned at the Quik-Mart. While I was on the phone with Jimmy Joe, listening to his threats against Bobby Lee, someone had put something in my Frostee. The woman who worked there. Had to be her. No one else had been in there. But why?

  Somehow, the woman must be connected with Jimmy Joe, and he was the one who’d put her up to poisoning me… .

  No thoughts came after that realization.

  Just the vision of Bobby Lee’s eyes, staring into mine.

  And then … fade to black.

  25

  “Where, Oh Where Has Bobby Lee Gone?”

  September 4, Wednesday, 1:20 P.M.

  The first time I came to, I was alone.

  Alone.

  No Bobby Lee.

  For a few minutes, stomach pain and sickness pulled my concentration away. I vomited until I had the dry heaves, leaving my body feeling as wrung out as an overused dishrag. My mouth was filled with a metallic taste.

  But even more horrifying, I was alone.

  “Bobby Lee,” I hollered—or tried to holler. In my head, I was screaming. But my voice came out as a weak, cracking whimper.

  “Bobby Lee! Bobby Lee! Bobby Lee!”

  I was close to hysteria. Some part of my brain began barking sharp commands.

  Check watch!

  It was just twenty minutes after one P.M.

  Oh God. I’d been out for an hour. Long enough for Bobby Lee to have gone far away.

  But Bobby Lee wouldn’t have left my side. Not voluntarily.

  “Bobby Lee! Bobby Lee! Bobby Lee!”

  Stop! commanded the tiny drill-sergeant part of my brain, which was struggling to retain control of my thoughts and actions.

  I stopped—and realized with surprise that somehow, I’d gotten to my knees and was crawling down the path.

  Get the walkie-talkie! my inner drill sergeant ordered. I felt for
it on my person, but it wasn’t there. Hadn’t I clipped it to my belt, as usual? But it wasn’t there.

  I backed up the few feet I’d managed to crawl and saw that the walkie-talkie was nowhere near where I’d been. I felt for it under the brush on either side of the path, and came up with nothing more than dirt and foliage. The walkie-talkie hadn’t fallen off me. It had been taken.

  But then something else, farther back up the path, caught my eye. I crawled to it, and stared in horror. Bobby Lee’s lead and collar were coiled in a neat pile just off the path. A grubby piece of paper was pinned to the collar.

  I picked up the collar and, with trembling hands, unfolded the note. Written in a penciled scrawl, with the sophistication and spelling of a second-grader, was a message that wrenched my heart:

  Jo Beth,

  I’m sorry it’s come to this, but I figure it’s the only way to get your attention. Come to me and I won’t hurt Bobby Lee. But jest you has to track me. If you send anyone else, I can’t account for what might happen to your bloodhound. By the time you find me I know you’ll have time to think it thru and see we’re ment to be together. Forever.

  JB + JJ.

  Jimmy Joe.

  I had to find Bobby Lee—even if it killed me. Bobby Lee was a bloodhound to die for.

  And maybe, once I got my hands on Jimmy Joe, to kill for.

  “Bobby Lee! Bobby Lee! Bobby Lee!”

  Clutching his collar and lead so hard they cut into the palms of my hands, I got on my knees. I couldn’t get up any farther. But I walked on my knees up the path, repeatedly bleating his name, not caring a whit that my knees were being torn up on the rough path, or that again my stomach felt as though it was being sent through a shredder.

  When I came to the second time, my vision was filled with whiteness. In the background, I could hear hushed sounds, low voices talking. Something like shoes tapping on a linoleum floor, then the sound fading quickly.