I was plagued by the extra weight of the soaking rain. Every step I took was slower and slower. Like in a nightmare, I tried to run but I had trouble getting the right hop and make my legs move in unison. I couldn’t imagine how Moby was managing. A full coat of cold, wet fur must feel like lead on a dog with old arthritic bones.
“Moby!” I called over and over. I barely heard the sound of my own voice, but dogs’ ears were better, right? If Moby were anywhere nearby he should hear me.
Where would a scared dog hide? I checked in the bushes, under the bench across the street, anywhere that might offer shelter.
Sheets of rain intensified, blanketing the end of the street where the road dipped to the lake. The reflection off the black asphalt was deceiving. I landed ankle-deep in a puddle and almost lost my footing.
The lights from my flashlight shifted in the wind, making false shadows. A figure of a man stood by the door of the empty bakery. Struggling in the downpour, he flapped his arms back and forth. Relieved that someone else was out on this godawful night, I ran toward him. Maybe he had seen an old, frightened collie.
“Have you seen a dog?” I shouted into the gust as I approached him.
He didn’t hear me. I placed my hand on his shoulder to get his attention. But his arm disintegrated from my touch and he came apart in my fingers. He careened sideways and a grotesque face spun and crashed into me. I screamed and arched backwards, circling my arms for balance, and slipped off the curb. I landed with a jarring thud on my backside. The flashlight flew out of my hands and went dim. With a racing heart, I felt for the ground and struggled to stand. Something with flowing strands of light hair bobbed facedown in the stream of rainwater that was turning into a river.
Dread formed in my throat. I blinked past the liquid bullets that sprayed my face.
I leaned forward with an unsteady hand. “Please, please . . . not Moby.”
Lightning flashed just as I grasped the object. It turned over and the hollow eyes and sickly smiling teeth of a monster mask writhed in the water. I screamed and drew back, letting the deluge take the scarecrow away.
I swallowed icy rain and pulled myself together. If I was scared on a night like tonight, what was a poor, wimpy dog feeling? He didn’t like being wet. Hell, he didn’t like a rain shower, much less a thunderstorm.
I wiped my eyes and returned to my search, running up and down Main Street, from one end to the other, peering in every doorway, under each bench, and below any possible overhang that might give an animal shelter. I yelled his name until my voice grew hoarse. The street was deserted.
Almost.
Every cheesecloth ghost, every undead pumpkin, black bat, and perching spider came alive. I was caught in dozens of spiderwebs and tripped over cornstalks that were wilting in the rain. Halloween decorations that had been so funny in the clear light of day had transformed into a macabre specter in the storm.
I pressed on. I would gladly suffer through a million nightmares like this, if I could find Moby.
I raced back to the store, hoping against hope that Moby might have come home. But no soggy, tail-wagging old dog was there. Just a tarp on a Dumpster billowing in the wind. I considered my options and came up with nothing. No one was around. I didn’t have anyone’s number on my cell phone anyway.
Back on Main Street, I turned in the other direction. Water rushed around my ankles like a flood in a monsoon. Instead of turning night to day, the lightning only made Echo Lake at the end of the street blacker. Like a hole that swallowed everything up.
Moby was a horrible swimmer. When I teasingly lured him into the lake one afternoon, his heavy coat pulled him down, like a rock around the neck. If he had lost his footing or wandered to the shore, he could be in the lake right now.
I stumbled toward the beach and scanned the water. But it was impossible to tell if anything was lost on the waves. I struggled for breath. The wind buried the sound of my sobs.
“Moby! Moby!” Nothing came back to me. Not a bark or a whimper or a whine. I made my way down the lake road, searching for the one person who might be able to help me.
* * *
I pounded on the door, hoping I got the right house. Everything looked different in the dark. My hands were so cold that I couldn’t even feel them against the wood.
The door swung open. My brain registered Kit’s startled face before I blurted out, “Kit, I lost Moby.”
“You what?”
He pulled me inside. I was shivering so hard I could barely make my lips move. “Have you seen Moby? He loves you so much. I thought he might come here.”
Kit grabbed a blanket from the couch. “I just returned from the festival. For God’s sake, Trudy. You look frozen.”
“Is he here?” I asked as he wrapped the plush blanket around me.
“Here?”
“He’s—he’s out there. And he’s s—scared.” My voice broke in a shudder.
I wrenched the blanket off. Kit put it back, wrapping his arm around my shoulders. “What happened?” He rubbed the soft flannel up and down and my skin prickled as it came back to life.
“The girls put all the books in the Dumpster. I’m so sorry. And then it was starting to rain, and I went to the diner—” Why was I telling him all this? It wasn’t important. “Moby kept whining as the wind and thunder started. He hates storms! And I—I ignored his fear. I feel so badly, Kit.”
He rubbed the blanket over my soggy head and pulled me closer. “Shhh, it’s all right.”
“No, it’s not. He’s out in the storm.” A stream followed me as Kit guided me to the nearby couch. “Don’t you get it?”
“Let me make a call to J. D. or Sheriff Howe. Just stay here.”
He left me to retrieve his phone. His voice was low as he spoke, but I heard him describe Moby and where he had been seen last. When he returned, he said, “You stay here and get warm. I’ll take my truck and try to see if I can find him.”
“No. I’m going with you.”
“You’re half frozen. The weather is supposed to get colder and you—”
I was already at the door. “Let’s drive to Doc’s or the Family Fare. Maybe he went there.”
He stomped after me. “You’re shivering like a Titanic victim.”
“Come on. Let’s go.”
“You stubborn girl. At least put on another coat.” He grabbed his barn jacket from the peg by the door and helped me change into it before putting on a windbreaker.
We ran to the truck, splashing through the puddles that formed on the gravel driveway, and jumped in. The rain on the roof made me feel like I was inside a drum barrel. Even with the windshield wipers oscillating back and forth at full speed, it was still hard to see past the cascading rain on the glass. The headlights cut through the downpour and I searched the area for any sign of a sable coat and the white tail with a black tip. We moved slowly, Kit keeping watch on the left and me on the right. I lost count of the number of times we thought we saw something. Twice I jumped out of the car before Kit could even put it in park. But the wind and the wet leaves on the ground made mirages out of tree branches that lay across the road.
We drove back through town, and again I checked the store in hopes that Moby had returned. But there was no sign of him. Kit made me stay in the car while he asked the unfriendly new chef and waitress at Cookee’s Diner if anyone had reported a stray dog. Even through the rain and the wind, I saw them shake their heads.
When he returned, Kit reached over and covered my hand briefly, before backing out of the parking lot. The heater was on full blast and I was still shivering. The rain fell in a dense sheet and the road turned slick. “It’s still early, Trudy. We’ll find him.”
But it wasn’t early. It was late. And I was losing hope. We turned off of M-33 into the parking lot of the Family Fare. Kit’s phone cut through the dull thud of the rain. He accepted the call and it came over the speakers of his car.
“Kit, this is J. D. Hardy.”
I leaned forw
ard. “J. D., this is Trudy! I’m here! Did you find Moby?”
“Hi Trudy. I got a call from the office in Harrisburg. Someone brought in a dog.”
“Harrisburg? How did he get over there?”
“Now, I’m not sure it is Moby. They gave me no other information.”
“Is he okay?” I asked before Kit could respond.
“I don’t know any of the details.”
“Who found him?”
Kit placed a hand on my shoulder. “He doesn’t know the details, love. Let him talk.”
“You’ll have to go to the county offices and ask. They’re the only office open right now,” J. D. said. His voice crackled. He was probably out on some state highway. “They couldn’t tell me much more. It’s a busy night. Half the off-duty staff has been called in because of the storm. I’m dealing with several downed wires and fallen limbs.”
J. D. gave us the address of the Harrisburg county offices. I couldn’t contain the excitement in my voice. “I know where it is. Elizabeth drove me there this morning.” Before we signed off, I yelled, “Thank you, J. D. Thank you, thank you!”
Kit made a U-turn in the Family Fare parking lot. As we drove down the two-lane highway toward Harrisburg, I nagged Kit to drive faster. “Kit, hurry; he’s got to be so scared.”
Kit put a hand on the back of my neck. “Whether it’s him or not, we’ll find him.”
I gripped my hands together and hoped he was right.
* * *
We pulled into the dispatch office for Harrison County and I was out of the car before Kit cut the engine. He caught up to me and held the door as we entered.
A man in uniform behind the desk looked up from a phone call. “Do you have an emergency?”
Kit and I spoke at the same time.
“No.”
“Yes!”
I started to explain, but Kit put a hand on my arm and pulled me back. “We can wait,” he said.
The young man, who looked no more than twenty, studied the screen in front of him. Voices over a speaker interrupted his call. I leaned forward to say something, but Kit squeezed my hand and shook his head. I knew he was right. I clamped my lips shut and bit down to keep from speaking.
We waited, creating a pond on the floor as the man dispatched several officers and made notes in a logbook in front of him. When he was finally finished, he apologized. “Sorry. It’s one of those nights . .. What can I do for you?”
“We’re looking for a dog that’s been brought in. An older collie. Male.”
He flipped a page in his logbook and nodded his head.
“Someone did find a dog over on County Road 487.”
“Is he all right?”
“This report doesn’t say. I can call over to the animal shelter and find out—”
The door to the station burst open and an older man, wearing a floppy red rain hat tied by a string under his chin, tangled with an umbrella and the door.
“What’s the deal with 487?” he called out as the umbrella came free. He didn’t even notice Kit or me. After he struggled to close the floral umbrella, he shook the slushy rain off a trench coat that opened to reveal a navy sports coat with an emblem on the lapel.
The dispatcher sat up straighter. “The road crew says they’ll get to it after they clear the limb that’s down over the driveway of the hospital emergency entrance, sir.”
“A limb? Surely that can wait. I can’t get down 487 and I’m late to a dinner.”
“They say they should have it cleared in an hour or so.”
“An hour? That’s not going to work. I’m missing the roasted pheasant at the leader-appreciation banquet.”
“You could take the Huron National Forest roadway, sir.”
The man stepped in front of us, his wet shoes squelching on the tile floor. I stared at the back of his head. Thin clumps of hair sprouted from underneath his rain hat. I already hated him.
“Huron would take me a whole forty-five minutes out of my way. Tell them to get on it now, Parker.” He reached over the desk for the phone and held it up to the young man, who took it as if it were a hot potato.
“I understand you are in a rush, sir. But county orders are that we clear all access to clinics and hospitals first.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, it’s just a twig. If some kid needs a Band-Aid, they can walk around it up the driveway.”
The dispatcher glanced down at the desk and slumped. He started to dial a number.
I poked the rude man in the back and stepped in front of him. “Excuse me. We were about to get some important information.”
The man looked at me as if I were an annoying fly.
“Stay out of it, love,” Kit said in a low voice.
I was cold and soggy and my dog was waiting. I took a cue on brazenness from the man who was about to eat one of the most beautiful birds in the world. I reached over the desk and pushed the button on the phone, ending the call. “Parker, the dog?”
“Excuse me?” The man’s voice was so loud he drowned out the rain.
“I will be happy to excuse you, as soon as I find out what is happening with my dog.”
“Your—your dog? Are you crazy, lady? There are more important things than worrying about your dog.”
Kit tried to pull me off, but I dodged his grasp. I stepped forward until I was nose-to-nose with the pudgy man. “There are more important things. Like making sure the driveway of a hospital is accessible. And then my dog!”
“Who do you think you are, young lady?”
The door behind us blew open and several papers flew off the dispatcher’s desk. No one was there.
Kit finally managed to wrap an arm around my middle. “If Moby is in a shelter we can wait.”
I struggled out of his arms. “I would be happy to wait if there were a real emergency, but not so this carnivorous man can get to his fumb deast.”
“My fumb what?” The man turned back to the dispatcher and bellowed, “Pick up the phone again and call, Parker!”
“No Parker, don’t do it!” I shouted.
“Trudy, stop,” said Kit.
“Trudy?” The man’s jowls shook when he spoke.
Kit stepped between us and put his hands up like a preacher trying to calm the masses. “She’s upset because her dog has been out in the storm. We understand you have places to be. So—”
The man’s lips curled smugly and his chest began to shake as if he thought the situation was funny. “Trudy Brown. I should have known by your red hair. I’ve heard all about you.”
Kit gave up all attempts to reason with the man. He turned to me and placed his hands on my shoulders. “Let’s go sit in the corner and wait until they are—”
“Trudy, the dummy who has that bookstore!”
Kit stilled. His face lost all color except for his beautiful blue eyes, which grew very dark behind his rain-splattered glasses. Slowly, he turned around until he faced the man. “What did you say?”
“Now I know why she’s so crazy. She’s Trudy Brown. The stupid retar—”
Now I was trying to put myself between Kit and this man. “It’s not important, Kit. Let’s just wait like you said.”
But Kit poked the man in the chest with his index finger. “Don’t you ever call her that again!”
“He touched me. Did you see that, Parker? He touched me!”
The dispatcher was out of his chair. He inserted himself between both men. “Let’s all calm down, everyone.”
“Calm down? This man with the funny accent attacked me.”
“That was nothing but my finger. I’ll be happy to show you what an attack feels like.”
“What are you? A drunk Irishman?”
That made Kit madder. He shrugged the deputy’s arm off. “I demand you apologize to the lady.”
“You’re as loony as her. Two retards.”
I grabbed the back of Kit’s coat and the dispatcher reached for his radio. “Uh, is there a patrol car nearby?” he said into the speaker
.
The three men shifted around each other, not exactly touching, but threatening as they slid across the small lake of water in the middle of the floor. That was when I saw the broomstick in the corner of the room.
Chapter 19
“A broom, Trudy? Really?”
“I was trying to keep you apart. It wasn’t my fault that man slid and ended up on the floor like a clump of Jell-O.”
“His hair came off.”
“Only because his stupid-looking rain hat went flying.”
“No man likes to see his hair lying in a puddle.”
“Then he shouldn’t have pushed you.”
We sat on a bench in a cell of the Harrison County Jail. It was conveniently located behind the dispatcher’s office, so the officer who answered the dispatcher’s call didn’t have very far to lead us.
I got up and paced back and forth until Kit told me to sit down. “You’re making me dizzy!”
I dropped down on the bench with my back to the wall and clutched the bench impatiently. I didn’t care if we stayed in the jail all night or all week, for that matter. I just wanted to know if my dog was all right.
Next to me, Kit leaned against the wall, crossing his arms like an unhappy child. “I can take care of myself. I didn’t need you to defend me.”
“That man was mean and rude.”
“He was. But if we had just let him get on with his business, we wouldn’t be here.”
I lifted my chin and said, “His business of leaving the clinic blocked so he could go eat a dead bird?”
“Get over the dead-bird business. I eat dead birds. And so does Moby, for that matter.”
I was silent after that. Ungrateful man.
The jail cell was cold and the concrete walls were pink, of all colors. Like Pepto-Bismol. Some psychologist must have recommended the color. Maybe criminals felt better when they were surrounded by pink. I, for one, only felt a strange chalkiness inside my mouth. It made me thirsty.
Every once in a while I heard voices on the other side of the cell door. The window on the door was made of bars. If they had let me keep my pocketknife I might have been able to use the serrated blade on the metal. Unfortunately, I didn’t see a jailbreak in my future.
The Bookshop on Autumn Lane Page 24
