A dozen fenced dog runs, each with a covered section and a doghouse, stood ready for use. Behind them, a long shelter was being built to house dogs in cold weather, but only the framing and one wall had gone up so far. Rachel had asked for a one-day break in construction noise for the sake of the frightened dog, and the men were busy nearby, digging holes for the concrete footings of additional fenced enclosures.
“We’ll keep some in the house if we have to,” Holly said. “Just get all of them in here so we can take care of them.”
But would the dogs be safe here? “My big concern right now is security,” Rachel said. “Are you sure the guys your grandmother’s hiring will be reliable?”
Holly’s nod was emphatic. “They know they’d better be, or they’ll have to answer to Grandma. They won’t let that crazy bunch get in here again.”
Rachel didn’t like putting the shelter’s security in the hands of men from Rocky Branch District, but Holly’s grandmother knew everyone in that area and was probably a good judge of who could be trusted. With a few phone calls this morning she had rounded up a full crew of men who wanted the work and could start today. They weren’t professionals, though, and Rachel worried that someone would get hurt unnecessarily. But what alternative did they have on short notice? Every animal Rachel and Joe Dolan brought to the shelter would increase the chances of an attack on the place. The dogs and the people who cared for them would be in greater danger with every day—and night—that passed.
Chapter Thirteen
“Oh, man, look at that!” Brandon exclaimed, peering at the house through the cruiser’s windshield. “A real log cabin. I’ve never seen one before.”
At the end of the steep gravel road, Tom pulled into the clearing in front of the house and killed the engine. “Some people out in the big wide world believe all of us hillbillies live in log cabins.”
“I wouldn’t mind it,” Brandon said. “That is one cool house.”
“It might be a little cooler in the winter than you’re used to. Speaking literally.” Burt Morgan’s cabin perched halfway up a mountainside that wasn’t served by electric or gas lines.
When Tom and Brandon stepped out of the car, two big mutts scrambled from under the porch, barking and growling. Tom’s hand went to his gun.
Morgan banged open his screen door, yelling, “Rambo! Bullet! Back off!”
The dogs stopped instantly. Whining, they retreated a few feet, but they never took their eyes off Tom and Brandon.
“Lay down, fleabags,” Morgan commanded.
The dogs flopped onto their bellies.
“Hey, Burt,” Tom said. He kept a wary eye on the dogs. “How have you been?”
“Like you give a shit,” Morgan replied, his tone almost amiable. He was in his late fifties, with close-cropped gray hair and a basketball of a belly under a brown flannel shirt. He jammed one fist into the pocket of his loose khaki pants. His other hand held a cigarette. “What can I do for you, Captain?”
Tom moved closer to the house. The dogs, apparently reassured by their owner’s acceptance of the visitors, lost interest in him and laid their heads on their paws. Brandon stayed in the background, scouting the property. The small clearing was just big enough for Morgan’s house, a wood shed next to it, and parking space for several vehicles. Tom had parked his cruiser next to Morgan’s old pickup. On the other side of the truck sat a blue Civic, several years old but shiny and spotless.
Tom rested one booted foot against the bottom step. Drawing on his cigarette, Morgan squinted down at him from the porch.
“I just wanted to check in with you,” Tom said. “See how you’re doing.”
“Uh huh. You Bridgers have always had a real strong interest in my welfare. What the hell’s that kid lookin’ for?” Morgan gestured toward Brandon. Ash dropped from his cigarette in a shower of sparks.
Tom glanced at Brandon, who had been prowling along the edge of the clearing, scanning the woods. “He’s just admiring the scenery. Those two the only dogs you’ve got here?”
“Only dogs I’ve got anywhere. I’m stayin’ out of the fights, if that’s what you’re snoopin’ around about. I don’t even go to ’em anymore. Lost my taste for it. But don’t go thankin’ yourself for that.” Morgan jerked a thumb back toward the house. “It was Sylvia’s doing.”
Tom shifted his gaze to the door and saw a plump, matronly blond woman standing behind the screen door. The owner of the Civic, no doubt. Sylvia was part of the Stuckey clan, a coal miner’s widow who worked the dinner shift at the Mountaineer.
“Yeah, I know you cleaned up your act,” Tom said. “But there’s always somebody waiting to step in. It was quiet for a while, but I think the fights are going on again. A lot of people’s pet dogs have been disappearing, and now Gordon Hall’s been killed by a dog.”
Morgan frowned. “You tyin’ that to the fights? I heard it was that wild pack that took Hall out.”
“The medical examiner says he was attacked by one dog. You know the rest of a pack wouldn’t stand by and watch.”
“Naw,” Morgan murmured. “That wouldn’t happen. Damn. And what’s this about people’s pets disappearin’? What’s that got to do with the fights?”
“I think it’s a real possibility that pet dogs are being stolen and used as bait to train the fighters.” Tom saw something in Morgan’s face, a dawning outrage, that made him think he’d stumbled onto a way to get his help. “Most of them are children’s pets.”
Morgan shook his head, scowling. “Man, that is low. I never woulda stooped to somethin’ like that. A kid’s pet, anybody’s pet, that’s off-limits.”
“Well,” Tom said, “not everybody has your standards. I need to put a stop to it, Burt. And I need your help. I’ll understand if you’re scared of these guys—”
“I never said I was scared of anybody. I’m sure as hell not afraid of scum that’d steal pets away from kids. Goddamn idiots is what they sound like, don’t know what the hell they’re doin’.” Morgan punctuated his statement by spitting at the ground. “I hope you catch the sons of bitches.”
“Do you know who’s organizing the fights now?”
“No idea. Like I said, I steer clear these days.”
“But nobody would be surprised if you started taking an interest in betting now and then.”
“You’re right about that. No matter how you turn yourself around, nobody believes it. They’re always just waitin’ for you to slip back into old habits.” Morgan shook his head. “Syl’s the only person that’s ever had any faith in me. Gettin’ together with her’s the smartest move I ever made.”
“Will you keep your eyes and ears open, and let me know if you learn anything that could lead me to the organizers? If you find out where and when a fight’s taking place, that’s all I’d need. I might be able to arrange a reward for you. It wouldn’t be a lot, but—”
“Now just hold on,” Morgan said. “I’m not takin’ any money from the cops. I do what I want to do, I’m not up for sale.”
“I hear you,” Tom said. “But I need your help. I don’t think we have any time to waste if we want to get those kids’ pets back to them alive.” He extracted a business card from an inside pocket of his uniform jacket. “Call me if you hear something. Anytime, day or night.”
Morgan looked at the card in Tom’s hand for a long time, his mouth screwed up. Tom was afraid he was about to back away from their tentative deal. But at last Morgan reached for the card, stuck it into his pants pocket. Without speaking again, he turned to go back into his log house. At the door, though, he paused and looked around at Tom. “You know you’re messing in some dangerous business here?”
“Yeah, I know,” Tom said.
“Well, good luck to you, buddy. You’re gonna need it.”
Chapter Fourteen
She hated this place.
By the time Rachel turned into the school parking lot, she felt the back of her neck tightening with tension and a sick knot forming in her stom
ach.
“Oh, my gosh,” Holly said, smiling as she took in the crowd of about fifty people already waiting with their dogs outside the gymnasium. “We got a lot of customers today.”
They would be here for hours, Rachel thought, and the knot jerked tighter.
Climbing out of her Range Rover, she forced herself to pull in a deep breath of fresh air. The weather was perfect, with that rare combination of warmth and crispness that came only in autumn, and the mountains themselves seem to sway as a breeze rippled through the gaudy leaves on the trees. Sometimes even Rocky Branch District could be beautiful if she looked in the right direction.
Rachel and Holly carried boxes of rabies vaccine, syringes and needles, rabies certificates and tags into the gym, and the waiting people trooped in, struggling to keep their sniffing, yapping animals apart.
Tom had sent one of the older deputies, a man named Don Jones, to make sure Rachel and Holly were safe. While they set up their supplies on the big table the school had provided, Deputy Jones herded the crowd into a straight line, exchanged greetings with men and women he knew, patted a few of the dogs. Several people called hello to Holly, and she gave each a smile and a wave.
This part of the county was home to Holly, where she’d spent her entire life until she’d taken a job at the animal hospital, but Rachel saw it as a dark and threatening place filled with unpredictable people she would never understand. Anytime she began to feel comfortable in Mason County, as if she might fit in here after all, a trip to Rocky Branch District could destroy that assurance and remind her she would always be an outsider.
This school, in particular, gave her the creeps. A couple of months ago, following a contentious community meeting, Pete Rasey and his friends had surrounded her in the parking lot, taunting and threatening her until Tom stepped in. That experience almost made her abandon everything and run all the way back home to McLean. If she had a choice, she would never set foot in the school again, but the county had chosen this venue for the rabies clinic, she was here to administer vaccine provided by the state and county, and she couldn’t refuse to perform a public service in the area that needed it most.
She smoothed the front of her white lab coat, forced a smile and motioned for the line to move forward.
The first few dogs were little mutts with exuberant personalities. Rachel vaccinated them and gave each a quick exam. Two dogs had the inevitable accidents, squatting to relieve themselves on the polished gym floor, sending their mortified owners running to the restroom for paper towels to clean up the messes. The nervous dogs scratched and shook themselves, and within minutes a cloud of hairs floated in the sunbeams slanting through the high windows. Somehow the familiar sight of anxious dogs shedding like crazy in the presence of a vet made Rachel feel more comfortable.
Holly filled out paperwork and handed over certificates and new tags to the owners. A tiny dog that looked like a cross between a Chihuahua and a Jack Russell licked Rachel’s face like an ice cream cone before his embarrassed owner restrained him. She was laughing and wiping dog spit off her cheek when a young man in a Washington Nationals baseball cap stepped forward, tugging a large black and tan dog by a leash. Behind a leather muzzle, the animal growled and bared its teeth.
“He ain’t exactly glad to be here,” the young man said.
“I can see that.” Rachel recognized German shepherd in the animal’s rough coat, Doberman in its elongated head and slender build. “Do you have a problem with him biting?”
“Nope. Don’t want no problem, neither. I keep him muzzled when I take him anywhere away from home. It’s hard on him, comin’ in here. He hates other dogs. But he needs his shot. We got rabid coons out where we live.”
While its owner gave Holly the information she needed to fill in the rabies certificate, the muzzled dog snarled and lunged at a puppy behind him. The puppy’s elderly owner snatched up her floppy-eared little pet and backed away with it. “My lord in heaven,” the woman exclaimed, “can’t you keep that thing under control?”
“Sorry, Miz Adams. He gets all wound up—”
The dog lunged again.
“Buddy! Cool it!” The owner gripped the leash with both hands to prevent the animal from breaking free.
Imagining a dog-and-human riot in the making, Rachel filled a syringe with rabies vaccine and stepped around the table. “Let’s get this done so you can take him home.”
“He don’t like needles,” the owner said.
“I’ve never known a dog that did.” The only difference was in how many of her fingers they tried to take off in retaliation. “This has to go in his flank. Hold onto him.”
The owner knelt, the leash in one hand, and wrapped both arms around the dog’s shoulders. “Be still now, Buddy. Be a good boy for me.”
The dog’s growls escalated as he watched Rachel’s movements. When she stepped behind him, out of his sight, he howled and thrashed. He sent his owner flying and turned on Rachel. Holly yelped. The people behind them scattered, and every dog in the place started barking and howling.
Rachel grabbed the leash. The dog tried to bite her arm through his muzzle. The owner, still on his knees, retrieved the leash and clamped both arms around the dog, trying to hold him still.
Over the racket in the room, Rachel heard a man’s voice behind her. “Need some help?”
Rachel spun around to find Dr. Jim Sullivan looking back at her with a smirk on his face. She was surprised, but more than that, she was damned glad to see him. “Help him hold the dog,” she said, “so I can get the vaccine in.”
“No problem.” Sullivan approached the snarling animal without evident fear, slipped an arm around its neck, and yanked it back in a firm choke hold. “Do it,” he told Rachel.
She jabbed the needle into the dog’s flank and emptied the syringe. The owner snatched the tag and certificate from Holly and dragged his unhappy pet toward the door, the dog’s nails scraping the shiny gym floor. The other dogs didn’t quiet down until the two were gone.
Rachel blew out a breath. “Well, that was fun,” she said to Sullivan. “What are you doing here, by the way?”
“Oh, I just happened to be close by on a call and thought you could use some help with the rabies clinic.”
Close by on a call? Sullivan didn’t treat any animals in this part of the county. There wasn’t a farm within ten miles of the school. But Rachel didn’t have time to question him. The deputy had started shooing everybody back into line. Tugging her white coat to straighten it, she returned to the table. “I’m glad you showed up when you did,” she told Sullivan. “Thank you.”
“I’ll stick around if you can use an extra pair of hands,” Sullivan said.
His affable tone sounded so forced that Rachel stared at him for a moment, trying to figure out what his real mood might be and why he was trying to hide it. Sullivan avoided her gaze, making a show of checking out the supplies on the table. Rachel picked up a syringe and vaccine vial. “Okay, sure. I’d appreciate the help.”
Rachel put aside the question of Sullivan’s out-of-character behavior and turned her attention to the elderly woman whose puppy had been frightened by the big dog.
Joining Rachel behind the table, Sullivan began his own stream of brief exams and vaccinations. He did the work conscientiously, but he seemed to be watching the door, as if expecting someone to come in, something to happen. She couldn’t imagine what he was looking for. The deputy was supposed to protect Rachel and Holly, but she had the weird feeling Sullivan was there for the same reason.
Rachel almost laughed at the thought.
What was Sullivan’s real reason for being there? Trying to get back in her good graces? Another laughable thought. He didn’t give a damn whether she was annoyed with him or not. So why did he show up, behaving so politely, being so helpful? So phony? What was he up to?
Chapter Fifteen
Was a single staff member at Tri-County General Hospital mourning the death of Gordon Hall? From the receptionis
t who greeted Tom in the lobby to the white-coated doctors and nurses in scrubs who walked the halls and clustered at nursing stations, no one seemed grief-stricken because the hospital’s owner had been murdered. Tom felt their eyes following him, though, taking in his uniform, badge, and gun. Conversation halted when he approached and resumed in whispers after he passed.
He rode the elevator to the second floor. Walking past patient rooms, breathing in the odors of cleaning products and alcohol mingled with the faint stench of vomit, he wondered, as he had a million times, how his mother ever got used to working here. Anne Bridger had been a warm, cheerful woman who filled their home with the scents of baking and fresh flowers. Her deep desire to help others had brought her here every day, to work among the sick and injured and dying and to take orders from an officious ass named Gordon Hall.
Tom still thought of this place as Mason County General Hospital, the name it had before Hall launched an effort to draw patients from neighboring counties. Most people still used the old name. It was a different place now, though. Hall had to be given credit for taking over a failing hospital in a dilapidated building and turning it into a modern health care facility.
Pushing through a swinging door, Tom entered a section of offices. Jonelle Cruise, the nursing director, worked in a corner room at the far end of the corridor. He rapped on the partially open door to draw her attention from the file she was reading.
“Hey, Tommy, come on in,” she said, removing her reading glasses. “Close the door, please.” A plump woman in her fifties, she had short brown hair streaked with gray. Over her blue blouse she wore a pink lab coat.
“I haven’t been here since everything was moved around.” Tom sat in the chair facing her desk. Motioning at a stack of cardboard file boxes against one wall, he added, “I guess you’re still getting settled.”
Under the Dog Star: A Rachel Goddard Mystery #4 (Rachel Goddard Mysteries) Page 10
