Rachel lost her footing and stumbled on the steps. Tom’s strong arm circled her waist and kept her from falling. “An ambush? Who? How did they know—”
“I don’t have any answers. It was one guy, two maybe, and I don’t know who tipped them off.”
When they reached the top of the stairs she put her arms around him and buried her face in his shoulder. She didn’t think she could speak without letting her terror for him pour out. If it happened this time, she thought, it could happen the next time. And the next time, somebody could be killed. Tom could be killed.
He pulled her close for a tight hug. “It’ll be over before long,” he said when he let her go. “We’ll get them and shut down their operation. We always do. I don’t want you worrying about it.”
How could she not worry? How could she not fear the worst every time he went out into the night in search of people who wouldn’t hesitate to murder him? He worked in a place where almost everybody owned a gun and many people neither respected nor feared the police.
While Tom showered Rachel lay awake, wanting only to lie in his arms and appreciate the miracle of his surviving the ambush. He was doing his job, and living with a cop demanded strength and acceptance of the risks. When she’d moved in with Tom she thought she could handle these violent eruptions in their normally placid lives. Now she wondered if she could ever learn to live this way.
***
Tom crouched next to the fence around the pit, plucked a tuft of hair, skin and dried blood from the wire, and deposited it in a plastic bag. His boot prints from the night before still showed in the dirt, and being in the same spot brought back the memory of darkness and fear and a bullet whizzing by inches from his head.
He stood when he heard a vehicle approaching. What the hell? He’d given the order that everybody had to come to the clearing on foot to avoid destroying evidence at the dogfighting site. Around him, half a dozen deputies combed the ground for tufts of dog hair and any trash that might yield a fingerprint.
The new arrival was Sheriff Willingham in his personal car. He stopped at the end of the dirt road without entering the clearing. Swearing under his breath, Tom strode toward the vehicle. What was Willingham doing here? He wasn’t physically capable of joining the search for evidence, and he’d slow them down if he started throwing out nonsensical orders. But Tom knew better than to tell the sheriff he shouldn’t have bothered coming. He held the car door open while Willingham struggled out, his movements slow and clumsy, the effort bringing beads of sweat to his forehead.
He emerged from his car with a cane in hand, a concession to weakness that surprised Tom. His gray suit, white shirt, and tie meant he’d come straight from church. A tall, big-boned man, he’d lost so much weight in the past year that the jacket seemed to swallow his upper body, and Tom could see that only a tightly notched belt held the loose trousers up. He leaned on the cane, taking in the scene. “This is county land, you know. This patch was cleared and used for dogfights about fifteen years ago. Looks like somebody’s been here lately and cut down the brush again.”
The clearing looked bigger to Tom in the bright light of Sunday morning, and he estimated that close to twenty vehicles could park around the fringes. “This can’t be the only spot they use,” Tom said, “but they’ve used it recently.” He held up the plastic bag containing bloody dog hair and skin.
“I’m surprised they didn’t get in here and clean up every scrap of evidence before you could get back out,” Willingham said. “Damned amateurs.”
“They’ve been smart enough to keep their operation quiet for months,” Tom said. “I knew the drug trade was getting back in full swing, but I thought that was our only problem. I didn’t even suspect we had another dogfighting operation in the county until I saw what happened to Gordon Hall’s dog.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if the same people are behind the drug dealing and the dogfights.” The sheriff heaved a sigh that made him sound personally burdened by all the evils of the world. “I came out to bring you some news. I tried to raise you on your cell phone, but I guess you can’t get a signal.”
Tom’s first thought was that something had happened at the house. Rachel. He had a sudden sensation of falling, spinning through space, although he hadn’t moved. He opened his suddenly dry mouth to ask, “What is it?”
“You don’t have to look like the world’s coming to an end. It’s good news. Soo Jin Hall came out of her coma about an hour ago.”
Relief swept through Tom, leaving him breathless. Rachel was safe. It took a few seconds for the full meaning of the news to sink in. “Is she talking? Has she said anything about—”
“No, no,” the sheriff said. “They still have to get the tube out of her throat and see if she can breathe on her own. It’ll be a while before she can talk, and the doctor says she’s not likely to remember the accident.”
“But she can tell us who might have cut her tires, and she can tell us why she was following Ethan. Is anybody in the family with her?”
“No, she’s by herself,” the sheriff said. “Listen, do you really believe that dog you caught last night was a fighter that got loose?”
Tom refocused his attention. “Seems likely.”
“Well, then,” the sheriff said, “it makes sense to me that he could be the dog that killed Hall.”
Not this again, Tom thought. “I don’t think he would have been out at night without his pack.” He went on, cutting off the sheriff when the old man tried to interrupt. “We’ve got DNA off Hall’s body, in any case. We’ll prove one way or another whether the dog we caught was responsible. Until then, we have to keep looking into the people who might have wanted Hall dead.”
The sheriff’s sour expression told Tom he hadn’t taken well to his chief deputy shutting down his argument. After a moment, Willingham said, “And just who are you looking at? You don’t think Vicky Hall’s got anything to do with it, I hope.”
“No, we’ve pretty much ruled her out. All the evidence is that they had a solid relationship.”
“Somebody at the hospital holding a grudge?”
“Plenty of them detested Hall, but Dennis and I have both been questioning people, and we haven’t found anybody who would have gone so far as to turn a killer dog on him. Or anybody who has access to a killer dog, for that matter. Phoebe James and her husband—”
“Oh, come on now,” the sheriff scoffed.
“I was about to say, they’ve got motive, but no connection we can find to anybody with a dog like that. We’ve taken a hard look at Wally Green, checked out his movements, the people he associates with. Same situation. And he’s been so loudmouthed about hating Hall, he’d be crazy to act on it. He was the first person I questioned, with good reason. But I don’t think he was involved.”
“What about the rest of Hall’s family?” Willingham asked. “That oldest boy of his has been nothing but trouble most of his life. I’ve heard tales about him and Gordon having screaming matches.”
“Something’s going on with Ethan,” Tom said, “but I don’t know what yet. Something made Soo Jin follow him the night she had her accident. And I think Beth Hall was with Pete Rasey when he firebombed my house—”
“When are you gonna throw that punk in jail? He’s overdue.”
“I have to wait until I have the evidence,” Tom said.
“Then see that you get it. Save us a lot of trouble out of him in the future.” Willingham straightened, preparing to leave. Before he got into his car, he added, “I still believe you might already have that killer dog in a pen. I have a high regard for Dr. Goddard, you know that, but trying to rescue all those wild dogs is a damned fool thing to do.”
As the sheriff turned his car and drove back through the woods, Tom wasn’t thinking about the dogs or the murder case. Looking up at the clear blue sky through a stark maze of tree branches, he thought of Soo Jin, who had begun life as an unwanted baby, lying in a hospital twenty-one years later without a single loved one p
resent to rejoice when she regained consciousness.
Chapter Twenty-eight
The big black dog bared his teeth and threw himself at the fence like a battering ram. Instinctively Rachel jumped backward, pulling Holly and Joe Dolan with her.
“Like you predicted,” Joe said, “he’s not real happy to be here.”
Drooling and snarling, the dog backed up and flung himself at the fence around his pen again, rattling the chain link.
“He can’t get over,” Rachel said, eyeing the top of the fence, six feet high. “And the footings are solid, right? He can’t knock it down.”
“He can’t dig out either,” Holly said. “That fence is sunk two feet deep in concrete, just like Joe told us to do.”
“Even if he can’t get out, he’s going to hurt himself if he keeps this up.”
Rachel didn’t believe the dog had ever been anyone’s pet. He’d been used in fights—and seeing his scars in daylight, she was positive his wounds had been treated by a professional. Should she tell Tom what she suspected about Jim Sullivan? She had no proof of anything. The dog could have been a fighter somewhere else and might have no connection to the local operation. If Tom started asking Sullivan questions, he might quit in a huff and she would lose the clinic’s only farm vet. No, she would keep quiet for now, and figure out a way to prove or disprove her suspicions on her own before involving Tom.
The dog banged against the fence.
“Has he been eating?” Rachel asked.
“Oh, yeah,” Holly said. She pointed to a large aluminum dish just inside the front of the pen. The dish was empty, licked clean. “We put it in when he was asleep, then we got out of the way so he couldn’t see us. He ate every bit and had a real long drink.”
Unable to get at them, the dog started barking. At the other end of the line of pens, the first mutt they’d captured began to whine in response to its former leader.
Rachel raised her voice to be heard over the racket. “We can’t leave him here, not if we’re going to bring in more dogs. It’s bad for them and it’s bad for him. He’s overstimulated. He needs a quiet place without a lot of people around.”
“I can isolate him at the pound,” Joe said, “but I’ll have to tranquilize him to move him. I hate to do it again this soon after—”
Rachel’s cell phone rang. She dug it out of her shirt pocket and moved away from the barking dog to answer. Tom was calling. “Hi,” she said, “what’s up?”
“The dogs are out running around,” Tom said. “The department’s had half a dozen reports this morning about sightings in the same area. You and Joe need to get out there. I’ll meet you.”
***
With Rachel in the passenger seat, Joe sped north in the animal control van, between mountains blanketed with fall foliage. This could be it, Rachel thought, their chance to get all the dogs at once and bring them to a safe place.
“Indian Mountain’s out this way,” Joe said when they’d been on the road for twenty minutes. “Isn’t that where—”
“Yes,” Rachel cut him off. “That’s why I didn’t want to tell Holly and her grandmother what part of the county we’re headed for.”
Although she appreciated its beauty, Rachel would always think of this area of Mason County the same way she thought of the McClure house, as a place where horrific things had happened. On top of Indian Mountain, the bones of Holly’s aunt, Pauline McClure, were uncovered by a crew clearing trees and brush for construction of an outsider’s country retreat. Another discovery in a cave at the base of the mountain had changed Holly’s life forever. The wealthy man who owned the mountain had decided he didn’t want to spend time there after all, and he was still trying to sell it nine months later.
“There’s Tom,” Rachel said.
He was leaning against his cruiser at the side of the road. When Joe pulled in behind the police car, Tom walked back to talk to them. “It’s damned hard to keep in touch out here,” he said, “with the mountains breaking up the signals. The last I heard, the dogs were on a farm near here. They got into the hen house, looking for eggs, and the farmer ran them off. We’ll see them if we keep moving around.”
“I’ve got the darts and the cages,” Joe said. “Let’s roll.”
Guided by spotty radio reports full of static, they drove from one farm to another. Nearly an hour passed before they caught sight of the dogs, trotting across a field through the brown stubs of corn plants. Tom, in the lead, slowed to keep pace with the dogs, and Joe stayed close behind the cruiser.
Rachel watched the animals with Joe’s binoculars. “Ten of them left,” she said. “They’re all emaciated.”
“Oh, man, it ticks me off when I think about anybody dumping dogs out here instead of taking them to a shelter. What the hell’s wrong with people?”
“Maybe they think they’re giving the animals a chance to live,” Rachel said. “But out here on their own, they’ll starve to death.”
Joe didn’t answer but his hands tightened on the steering wheel, and Rachel could hear his teeth grinding.
The dogs, frightened by the vehicles, picked up speed and sprinted through fallow fields. The animals ranged from small to medium sized, all of them mutts. A few showed traces of recognizable breeds in their head or body shapes, but nothing about them was special. Disposable dogs, Rachel thought, the kind that would be difficult to find new homes for once they got past the cute puppy stage.
“They can’t keep running like this,” Rachel said. “They’re in such bad shape, I’m amazed they’ve lasted this long.”
“Shit!” Joe exclaimed. “Look at that!”
Jolted, Rachel took her eyes off the dogs and looked up ahead, where Joe pointed. An old SUV had stopped on the road in the other lane, and four men piled out of it. All of them carried shotguns.
Tom’s car lurched to a stop with a screech of tires. Joe pulled up behind the cruiser. Tom threw open his door and jumped out, drawing his gun.
The four men ignored Tom and lined up along the road, aiming their shotguns at the fleeing dogs.
“Oh god,” Rachel moaned. She couldn’t sit still while this happened. She reached for the door handle.
“Oh no you don’t.” Joe grabbed her arm. “You stay right where you are. Let Tom handle this.”
Rachel watched, hands clamped over her mouth, as Tom took a stance on the road, raised his gun, and shouted at the men. They all looked around but didn’t lower their weapons. One of the men, Rachel saw, was Ellis, the goon who’d stopped her at the Hall property. Joe powered down his window in time for them to hear Ellis yell at Tom, “We’re takin’ care of this once and for all. Stay out of our way, Bridger.”
“Get back in your car and get out of here,” Tom said.
“Go to hell,” Ellis said.
“I’ll shoot that damned gun out of your hands if I have to. You might lose a few fingers.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” Ellis sneered.
“I never make a threat unless I’m ready to back it up.”
In the silence that followed, nobody moved. Tom kept his weapon trained on the four men. They stared back at him with their shotguns raised.
Rachel’s lungs burned from lack of air. She gulped in a breath.
“Joe?” Tom called without looking around.
Joe leaned out his window. “Yeah, Captain?”
“Follow the dogs. Don’t lose them. I’ll catch up with you.”
“No!” Rachel cried. “We can’t leave Tom here alone!”
“He knows what he’s doing,” Joe said.
Rachel’s heart banged in her chest as Joe pulled the van around the cruiser and drove on past the men. She twisted in her seat to keep Tom in sight.
“There’s a patch of woods up ahead,” Joe said. “If the dogs go in there, we’ll lose them.”
She couldn’t look at the dogs. She couldn’t take her eyes off Tom.
Joe checked the rearview mirror. “Looks like he got through to them.”
The
men were climbing back into the SUV. Rachel thought she might faint with relief. “Oh, thank god,” she gasped.
“What did you expect?” Joe asked. “Those guys know we saw them. We could identify every one of them. They wouldn’t have let us go if they planned to shoot Tom.”
“My head knows that,” Rachel said, her heart still racing, her mouth dust-dry, “but they scared the hell out of me anyway.” Calm down, calm down, he’s safe, she told herself.
“Watch the dogs,” Joe said. “We don’t want to lose them.”
She faced forward and made herself focus on the pack of animals streaking toward the woods.
They had left the farms behind and entered an area where trees and brush crowded the pavement, leaving no clear space on either side for the dogs to run. Rachel expected them to vanish into the woods. But suddenly they veered onto the road in the path of the van. Joe slammed on his brakes, throwing Rachel forward against her seat belt.
The dogs ran on the road for half a mile. Glancing in the rearview mirror, Rachel saw Tom’s cruiser close behind the van. Their energy drained, their tongues lolling, the dogs now moved at little more than a trot. Joe and Tom slowed their vehicles to stay with them.
We’re killing these poor animals, Rachel thought. The dogs were using up their pitifully low reserves of energy and strength.
Abruptly the whole pack cut to the left. Then they were gone.
Joe braked, and Rachel jumped out. “Where did they go?” she called to Tom, who had stopped behind the van. “Where are they?”
Getting out of the cruiser, Tom pointed across the road.
Rachel’s gaze followed, and she realized with a start where they were. Indian Mountain loomed before them.
“Do you see it?” Tom said. He pointed to an opening at the base of the mountain, a narrow hole no more than three feet high and wide that was visible only because the leaves had dropped from the wild bushes around it. Beyond the opening, Rachel saw nothing but darkness.
“Is that the cave—”
“Yeah,” Tom said. “Where we found her.”
Her. Holly’s mother, or at least part of her. Rachel shuddered. “The dogs are living in there?”
Under the Dog Star: A Rachel Goddard Mystery #4 (Rachel Goddard Mysteries) Page 20
