by Jen Blood
“How was Brock with you?” Jack asked, when I went quiet.
How to even begin answering that question? I took a deep breath. “He didn’t like women,” I began. “Hated them, in fact, I think. I think he hated everything. Everything except Bear, I guess.”
“Even the dogs? Wasn’t that his thing?”
“He liked having power over the dogs. He was all about old-school training methods: prong collars, aversive training, flooding to get the desired result.”
“Flooding?” Jack asked.
“He’s afraid, Brock. Making him do it more won’t help that.”
Brock ignores me, focused on the shaking, cowering German shepherd in front of us. He holds a gun that he says is loaded with blanks.
I don’t believe him.
Brock aims it at the blue sky overhead. “He needs to learn. You think a police dog will never hear shots fired?”
He fires again. The dog yelps, as though he’s the one who’s been shot. Brock and I both wear protective earmuffs, but the dog has none.
Brock fires again.
I watch as a puddle of urine forms beneath the dog. If he could run, he would, but Brock holds a leash attached to a prong collar that digs in deep enough to make the dog bleed.
I have never wanted so much to inflict pain on another human, as I do right now.
“What happened to the dog?” Jack asked, when the story was done.
Tell him what you did, bitch, Brock whispered. For the first time, I smiled at the voice.
“I stole him,” I told Jack. “Sneaked into the kennels one night, got him, and drove him to a trainer who was experienced with fearful dogs. She ended up keeping him. He’s ten now, a little older than Phantom. Lives a good life.”
“What did Brock do when he found out?”
“He wasn’t happy.” I tried to make my voice light. I failed.
“Jamie,” Jack said.
I hesitated. The fire was still flickering in front of me, and I watched the play of light and dark inside the woodstove.
These are our little secrets, sweetheart, Brock whispered to me, a caress so close to my ear that I felt his breath on my skin. Shut that pretty mouth, and keep it shut. This couldn’t be real. How could he be here now?
Casper shifted beside me, his front paw twitching in dreams. It’s been proven that dogs dream; that they process key parts of their day, reliving them in sleep. What did he dream about now?
“That scar on your side,” Jack said, when I didn’t elaborate on my answer. I stiffened. I had forgotten Jack had even seen that, back in the tunnel in Glastenbury. Clearly, he remembered. “Did he do that?”
I swallowed again, pushing back a sudden wave of nausea.
“He was waiting for me that night when I got back,” I finally said. “It was about three a.m., and he knew what I’d done. Knew I’d taken the dog.”
“You’re too soft for this business, sweetheart,” Brock says to me. He wears pajama pants and leather slippers, with a fitted T-shirt that accentuates his massive upper body, biceps bulging at the sleeves. Like everything he wears, I get the feeling the outfit was planned for this exact moment.
“The dog wouldn’t have been any good at this – you saw him today. Better to get rid of him now. Save you the trouble.”
It’s an effort to keep my voice steady, keep myself from shaking, but I think of Birch – the dog I have just saved. I think of his terror, and my anger returns.
“You think you’re justified in this,” Brock says. He has an almost flawless ability to read people, and uses that ability to cut them down. But I won’t let him. Not this time.
“You think you know dogs better than me, girl?” he asks. “A few years working with some hippies out west who wouldn’t know a real dog if it bit them on the ass—”
“I know your methods are macho garbage,” I say. The fury I’ve been feeling for this whole year suddenly overflows. “I know half the dogs you train are damaged beyond repair by the time they leave here, and if you ever looked into it you’d find out that was true.”
“Careful, sweetheart,” Brock says. He takes a step toward me, a vein standing out in his forehead. I know what’s coming – or I think I do. I brace myself for the impact, tightening my gut. Brock never hits my face. Never leaves bruises. But he is a master at inflicting pain.
Instead of hitting, though, he reaches for me – fast as a snake, and his hand closes around my arm. Before I can get away, the other grips the back of my neck so hard that I go to my knees. I look up at him. He glares at me, eyes dark, the thrill of his power in this moment almost too much for him.
“You want me to show you how I first started teaching dogs who the master was?” he asks. His voice is low. He bends, still holding me tight, and his breath caresses my ear. “You want me to show you how man gained dominion over dumb beasts all those years ago?”
“Brock – please. I’m sorry. Just let me go. Let it go.”
“Where did you take the dog?”
Tears sting my eyes. I am twenty-five, but he picks me up by the back of the neck like I weigh no more than a child. I force myself not to scream, not to cry for help. I don’t want to wake Bear. Don’t want him to see this.
Brock propels me forward, along the wood-paneled hallway and into his study. It smells like leather and books, cigar smoke and whiskey. An orgiastic experience for any Hemingway wannabe in the world. The fire is going in the woodstove. It’s September, the air cool outside and in. There’s a poker set inside the flames, already glowing orange, and I know what it’s for. Know that Brock has been sitting here all night, waiting for this moment.
“Please, Brock,” I say, and I hate that I’m begging him now, unable to be silent. He doesn’t even acknowledge my plea, pushing me on. I fight him, trying desperately to be quiet. Bear can’t see me this way.
I catch Brock in the knee with my boot and he stumbles. Roars. He’s back on his feet before I can get away though, grabbing the back of my neck so hard I think he’ll tear my head off before we’re done.
“Please, Brock. No. Please let me go.”
“Where’s the dog?”
But I won’t tell him, and he knows it. I keep trying to figure out what his next move will be. Is he going to force me to the ground? Brand me with the poker? Strangle me? Instead, he grabs the sweatshirt I wear. He forces it up. Pushes me forward, until the woodstove is directly in my path. He’s tearing at my jeans.
“Don’t do this, Brock. Please don’t do this.” I’m beyond reason, barely able to breathe through tears and snot and terror. But I know that when he asks me again, I won’t tell him where the dog is. I will never tell him.
I close my eyes as he pushes me that last step. I feel the heat before he bends me over the woodstove, but it doesn’t prepare me for the hiss and burn when my flesh is laid bare on the cast iron.
“This is the way you teach someone who has the power. I should have done it with you years ago,” Brock says. He leans down while I’m still braced there, and whispers in my ear. “Don’t fuck with me, sweetheart.”
And then, suddenly, I am not alone with him. Lights flash just outside the window. People shout. Dogs bark. I don’t know how it happens, the sequence of events, but suddenly Hogan is there. Holding me. Bear is in the doorway crying. I watch, stunned and shaken, as Brock is led away in handcuffs.
But all I can feel is the burn.
I was sitting up, my body rigid, still staring into the flames when I finished the story. Jack wrapped a blanket around my shoulders, and sat down beside me on the floor. It was still grey outside, but dawn had broken. It looked like the storm had passed.
Aren’t you going to tell him the rest? Brock asked.
“How did Hogan know?” Jack asked.
“Bear had his number. He called when he heard everything.”
“And then what happened?”
I stared at the ground. Casper woke, stretched, and got up. He came to me and lay his head on my lap, and I was grateful
for his warmth, solidity, under my hand.
“Jamie?” Jack prompted. “I looked through Brock’s file. There was nothing about any of this. No record of an arrest.”
“I had nothing,” I finally said. My voice felt raw, like I’d been shouting. Or like I hadn’t spoken a word in years.
“So?” Jack said. “What he did—”
“You don’t understand,” I said. My eyes were dry, and I was grateful. I’d cried enough tears in this lifetime over Brock Campbell. I turned, and faced Jack. He sat cross-legged on the floor beside me, his dark eyes mournful. Baffled.
“He was rich – and not just a little bit. He had prestige. Lawyers. The community behind him. I was this nothing girl from Georgia with a kid of my own to take care of.”
“A kid he threatened to take if you pressed charges.”
“And he would have,” I said. “No doubt in my mind. He would have found a way.” Jack didn’t say anything. “You don’t have to pity me. I know I was a coward.”
“I don’t pity you,” he said, before I’d even gotten the sentence out. “I definitely don’t think you’re a coward.” He studied me a moment, eyes piercing through me. “I think you’re amazing.”
I looked away, cheeks burning. I felt the cast iron again, that fire on my skin, as though it had just happened. Casper went back to the bed and lay back down, and I wished that I had Phantom with me. My silent protector.
“So… We’ve come this far,” Jack finally said. “What happened after you didn’t press charges?”
“Nothing,” I said simply. I heard Brock roar, and felt a rush of power that took my breath away. I ignored him. And I kept talking. “I didn’t press charges. He came back. That was in September.” I looked at Jack. Held his eye. “By Halloween, he was dead.”
Tell him everything, bitch, Brock screamed. Tell him what you did. The wind whipped furiously against the cabin walls. I thought for a second we would all be uprooted. Jack didn’t look away. There was understanding in his eyes. I saw a faint hint of a smile, painful and knowing.
“Good,” he said.
Chapter 29
WildFire Expeditions
February 6, 6:30 a.m.
The rain had stopped and dawn had broken, but it was still cold and damp when Megan topped the ascent she knew would have to be her last in this trek. She had nothing left; not an ounce of get-up-and-go left to be gotten.
She pulled out Justin’s cell phone and turned it on, praying it would work. It did, with just twelve percent left on the battery. She checked the reception. With the ice storm last night, she didn’t have a lot of hope. But there it was, as soon as the screen was illuminated:
Two beautiful bars.
Megan punched in the only number she could think of. The only number she could imagine calling right now.
“Hogan,” a familiar voice barked in her ear. Megan’s eyes welled.
“What’s a girl got to do to get saved around here?” she croaked.
There was a long pause on the other end. Then:
“Hunter?”
“I haven’t been gone that long, have I?” she asked.
“Jesus – Hunter, where are you? Are you okay? We’ve been looking everywhere – we’ve turned the mountain upside down.”
She gave him Justin’s phone number so the warden service could track the GPS. “Violet’s with me,” she said afterward. “And Justin – my ex. He’ll need a paramedic.”
“Okay,” Hogan said. He took a second before he said anything more. “Just stay put, all right? Stay safe. I’ll be there just as soon as I can.”
“Good.” She paused. She had no courage left to say more. Hogan, thankfully, had some to spare.
“I missed you, Hunter,” he said suddenly. “You’ve got no idea, woman. No idea how much. Just…you should know that. I’ll be there before you know it.”
He hung up.
Megan held onto the phone and took a breath. She leaned back against the nearest tree, then slid to the cold ground. Recluse, matted and bloodied and weary, came over as soon as she was down and settled beside her. She looked at Violet, already seated with the rifle in her lap and a grim expression on her weary face.
Justin, meanwhile, appeared to be asleep, curled in the fetal position. From where she sat, she could see him shivering. Would he even survive this, when all was said and done?
“How are you holding up?” she asked Violet.
“You mean after learning my husband is a psychopath who wants me dead?”
“Among other things.”
Violet considered the question for a few seconds. Finally, she shrugged. “I don’t really know. I’m probably in shock. None of this has been easy to take in.”
“Justin could be lying.”
Violet shook her head, no trace of doubt on her face. “No. He’s been up to his ears in debt for a while now. Then all of a sudden, he started talking about projects he wants to take on, stuff he wants to buy. A boat. A plane. He wants to finance your brother-in-law’s movie, you know.”
“Abe?” Megan asked in disbelief. “He’s a nice guy, don’t get me wrong. But why would anyone want to finance that thing? Does it even exist?”
“It’s actually really good,” Violet said. “He gave Chase a copy. We watched it, and Chase said he was going to write him a check just as soon as this thing he was working on panned out. Wanted to know if I thought it was good enough.”
“So you’re telling me he was getting your advice on whether to invest in a project he planned to finance with insurance money he got after having you killed.”
Violet actually laughed out loud, though with no small amount of trauma in her eyes.
“Men suck,” Megan said.
“Only some of them,” Violet corrected her. It was the kind of thing she always said. Now, it seemed like it took more out of her to get the words out.
Megan thought of Hogan’s voice on the other end of the line just now. The milking goats waiting for her at his house. Recluse lay his head in her lap with a sigh, one paw draped across her leg. “Yeah,” she conceded. “Only some.”
The words were barely out of her mouth before Recluse’s head came up once more. He growled low in his throat, hackles raised, before the growl grew to a series of deep, menacing barks. Megan held him back, her hand wrapped tight around his collar.
“There you are,” a man’s voice said, as he emerged from the trees. “You have no idea how long I’ve been looking for you.”
Chase Carter stood at the edge of the clearing, soaked through.
#
Justin’s earlier words echoed in Megan’s head, even as Violet turned her gun on Chase.
“Now is that any way to greet your loving husband, after he’s braved all this to come save you?”
“How did you find us?” Megan asked. One hand still around Recluse’s collar as the dog continued to bark at the newcomer, she used the other to reach for the pistol she’d taken from Justin. Before she got it, she found herself face to face with a shotgun leveled at her nose.
“Unh uh,” Chase said. He had to raise his voice to be heard over Recluse. “Put it down. And, Vivvy, sweetheart, lay down that rifle please. And someone please, shut that dog up.”
“Easy, Rec,” Megan said quickly. “Hush.”
The dog’s full-throated barking fell to a whimper, and then died away as he looked at her. Megan caught Violet’s pained gaze. “Do what he says,” Megan said. She understood how to deal with Justin, but she didn’t have a clue where to start with a man like Chase.
Obligingly, Violet put the rifle on the ground. Chase took the pistol from Megan, careful to avoid Recluse, then strode to Violet and kicked the rifle away from her. Then, he helped Justin to his feet none too gently and cut the zip tie that bound his hands.
“I’m hurt,” Justin said. “The goddamn dog would’ve killed me if Megan didn’t pull him off.”
Chase looked at his arm distastefully, and cringed. “It doesn’t look good. We’ll find
you a doctor just as soon as we’re done here.”
“Thanks, man. I knew you’d come through.”
Chase returned his focus to Megan. “I’m sorry,” he said. “You asked me a question. Justin, show the ladies how I found you.”
Painfully, Justin bent and used his good arm to retrieve something from his boot. He held it up for both of them to see: a plastic button, about the size of a book of matches. “Look familiar?” he asked Megan.
“That’s my transponder!”
Chase looked so pleased with himself that Megan wanted nothing more than to knock the smirk right off his face. “You remember that day I paid you ladies a surprise visit?” he asked. “I just couldn’t go the whole week without seeing Vivvy… At least, I think that’s the story I told.”
“You stole it then,” Megan said.
“I did. It wasn’t hard from there to reconfigure it so it connected with my phone rather than the WildFire base. You environmental types are all about the re-purposing, right? I thought you’d be impressed with that.”
Recluse remained rooted to the spot beside Megan, her hand loose on his collar now. Of course she was worried for herself, and she was worried for Violet. Mostly, though, she was worried about the dog. The second Justin made a move toward her, Recluse would go for him. This time, Justin wouldn’t hesitate to kill the dog.
“What are you going to do with us?” Megan asked, trying to buy time. “I’ve already called for help. Nate Hogan’s on his way with the police.”
“Then we better get moving,” Chase said. She saw a flicker of surprise at her words, but he didn’t give away much beyond that.
“Where are we going?” Justin asked. It seemed shock and fatigue had combined to make him even dimmer than usual.
“You’re going where we planned all along, just as soon as this thing is done. I’m staying exactly where I’ve been – more or less. A million bucks richer and newly single, but otherwise…”
Megan caught Violet’s eye again. She looked ready to murder Chase where he stood. Chase followed her gaze, and smiled at his wife.
