I assume I made the final cut for the Grohl family’s Christmas card list.
Fortunately, I’ve only appeared in the news stories as an unnamed police contractor. This is fine by me—not only because I’d come across so awkward and bumbling in any TV interview that they’d have to get one of the guys from Dumb and Dumber to play me in the movie, but, more significantly, I could potentially venture off script and wind up getting Paul Lewis and Detective Hanson in hot water as well as sending Vira to the head of the canine line for lethal injection.
I cracked open a sixteen-ounce can of Coors Light and got lost in thought as I watched Delta Dawn, Maggie May, and Vira meander aimlessly about the back porch, garden chairs, and picnic table. Of the two collies, Maggie had instantly taken on the role of Vira’s surrogate mother, with Dawn co-starring as Vira’s know-it-all aunt. Sue, of course, had been one part patriarch and two parts camp commandant. But today my dogs were quiet. I’d brought the girls over to visit Sue at Doc Rawson’s place, but he had been heavily sedated and barely able to lift his head before sinking back into sleep. The girls all knew something had occurred, and a sense of sorrow hung over the trio.
Vira glanced in my direction and began to wander my way. She paused over the spot where I’d buried Amie’s ashes, where the grass had regrown in a slightly different shade of jade. Vira bobbed her head, almost imperceptibly, and strolled over to sit down next to me.
“Hey, Vira,” I said, touching the top of her head.
An instant later Vira was in my arms, wiggling about, licking at my face, doing her best to cheer me up. I had to hold her back from licking at the stitches in my neck.
After a minute, she quieted down, and I held her in my lap.
“Crazy week, Vira,” I said, and took another sip of beer. “Crazy week.”
* * *
As I took the chicken out for grilling the dogs began to bark, and then I heard the car pull into my driveway. Ad hoc visitors rarely appear, especially after Mickie’s departure, and I pulled back the window curtain to see who it was. A CPD squad car came to a stop behind my pickup truck. It wasn’t Detective Hanson, unless he’d transgendered in the past few days—as well as altered his race—because a Caucasian female officer sat behind the wheel. Something must have occurred and they need human remains detection dogs, I thought, only to immediately dismiss the notion. CPD never wastes time sending me an escort to a crime scene. When CPD calls, I bat-out-of-hell to the location they provide. The officer stepped from the car. Young, dark hair cut medium, athletic build, mid height, and—I caught myself combing fingers through my hair—attractive.
Then it dawned on me. I remembered Paul Lewis mumbling something about a lady cop that had taken a strong interest in Vira, the lady cop that had found Vira alive in that garage—where that drunken nutball had tried his best to kill her. Paul mentioned how this lady cop was interested in taking Vira, if no one else showed up for her. Three seconds later I had my dogs out the sliding glass door, off my doormat-sized deck, and sitting in the backyard.
“Stay,” I said sternly, pointing at the yard but staring at Vira.
It was early evening. They could lie in the sun or loaf under the picnic table. A second later I was opening my front door, hoping my Right Guard was working, wishing I’d sprayed some on my face. I stepped outside, explaining how my maid had called in sick, and we began chatting under my awning.
“Nice shiner,” she said, after introducing herself as Officer Kippy Gimm and confirmed my notion that she’d been the cop who’d discovered Vira in that pile of blankets and pillows.
“I forgot to duck,” I replied, bringing a forefinger up to my eye where feral-boy had kicked at me.
“I hope I’m not disturbing you, but I wanted to ask about your dog.”
“CACC put her down after she attacked Champine. They didn’t even wait long enough to realize she’d caught Brockman’s killer.” I felt myself begin to blush as I voiced that packaged lie, an actor missing his mark and blowing the dialogue.
Officer Gimm looked at me like I was a specimen on a microscope slide and said, “I was very sorry to hear that. She was about the sweetest little girl I’ve ever met in my life.”
I nodded without speaking, seeking to limit my deception to a bare minimum.
Officer Gimm glanced at my pickup truck and looked about the yard. “So you train cadaver dogs?”
I nodded again.
“Can I see your dogs?”
“I’d love to show them to you,” I said. A drooping Paul Lewis in the unemployment line flashed through my mind. Only Paul wouldn’t be receiving any unemployment checks as he’d have been fired for cause. And I’d lose my city contracts and probably wind up driving a school bus and delivering pizzas like Nicky Champine. I made a big production out of checking my watch. “But I’ve got an obedience training class in Lincolnshire in an hour.”
“I don’t mean to make you late.” Officer Gimm checked her own watch. “Perhaps I could see your dogs another time?”
“Give me a call and we’ll set something up,” I replied, praying she’d get in her squad car and just go away.
She glanced around my front yard again and then looked me in the eye. “Is everything all right?”
“Of course it is,” I said, acting all surprised at her question. I could feel my face turning red, and I couldn’t seem to stop shifting my weight from one foot to the other, like a kid in line for a much needed bathroom break. “I’m just running a little bit late.”
Seconds passed and she still didn’t budge. I felt as though I were beginning to melt.
Mickie had conned me into trying out for Arsenic and Old Lace as a senior in high school. Mickie, of course, got a lead role as one of the murderous old aunts, and I got a small role as a police officer who rambles on and on about a play he’d written. Everyone involved in the production was charming—everybody hit their marks, everybody stayed in character, and everybody read their lines with great pizzazz—everyone, that is, except me. I walked onto the stage, looked out into the audience, spotted a bunch of faces staring back at me … and froze. Someone offstage whispered my line in order to get me going. I took the verbal cue, stood perfectly still, like an ice sculpture, and zipped through my lines so fast my entire role lasted all of four seconds. Maybe three.
The audience applauded long and loud during the curtain call; however, there was a noticeable lapse in volume—mixed with audible laughter—as I stumbled out before the footlights to take my bow.
If an audience were observing today’s performance, they’d be tossing tomatoes and cabbage.
“Okay, then. I’ll give you a call to come back and check out your dogs,” Officer Gimm said finally and walked around to the driver’s side of her squad car, but she stopped as she spotted something by the side of my house. “Who’s that?”
I looked sideways. Vira sat quietly at the far corner of my house, staring back at Officer Gimm.
“That’s Angie,” I said after a tongue-tied moment. This fresh hell had no end in sight. I wanted to bang my forehead against the side of my trailer home.
“But she’s a golden retriever, too?”
“Golden retrievers are a breed that make exceptional human remains detection dogs,” I said, sounding like some pompous college professor. “They have a very keen nose.”
“I see,” Officer Gimm replied, her eyes never leaving Vira.
A few seconds or a thousand years passed slowly. I seriously contemplated bolting for the tree line, living in the woods for the rest of my life, eating worms and rabbit for dinner.
“So I drove all the way out here,” Gimm finally spoke again, still staring at Vira, “and you’re not even going to come say ‘Hi,’ Honey Bear?”
At Honey Bear, Vira flew through the air as though she were Superman and was in the police officer’s arms a moment later, licking at her face. Kippy Gimm knelt down and hugged my golden retriever.
“I knew it was you, Honey Bear,” Kippy said, her smil
e as big as Lake Michigan. “I knew it was you all along.”
CHAPTER 13
“I’m sorry I lied,” I said. Although we were seated at my kitchen table, I felt as if I were in the principal’s office awaiting my parents’ arrival.
“You weren’t very good at it,” Kippy said. “I thought about giving you some tips, but it was too much fun watching you dig the hole deeper.”
“It’s just that some people I know, Vira included, could get into a great deal of trouble.”
“No worries.” Kippy scratched at Vira’s ears. “Although I may blackmail you into shoveling my driveway next blizzard.”
“It’s a deal.”
I poured coffee into the cup I’d set in front of Officer Gimm, and then pointed at a bowl full of creamers and sugar packets I’d lifted from a nearby McDonald’s earlier in the week. “Hey—if you knew I was lying, I guess that means I didn’t really lie.”
“Sure, Buster,” Kippy replied. “Whatever you say.”
I liked how Kippy called me “Buster,” but suddenly I got all nervous and tried to decipher if Kippy was flirting with me or if “Buster” was just a common colloquialism she used with males each and every day. I can’t say I’m much of a flirt, certainly not a successful one. The only reason Mickie and I ever got together was because of that time when Mickie sent her best friend to confer with one of my high school wingmen. My wingman duly reported back what Mickie’s emissary had to say: Tell numbnuts Mickie will say “yes” if he ever gets off his ass and asks her to the dance.
Sometimes guys—and other such numbnuts—need to be led by the nose.
“Earth to Mason Reid,” Kippy said. “You still here?”
“Sorry, the pain meds make me a little groggy.” In truth, I’d not been on anything stronger than an occasional ibuprofen since I’d left the hospital. Rather, I’d been lost in silly contemplations since Kippy called me “Buster” and missed what she’d just mentioned. “What did you say?”
“I wanted to thank you for going out on a limb for Vira, for saving her life.”
“I’m just lucky Paul went along with it. Otherwise I’d have had a hell of a time tying him up.”
“We could have used my handcuffs had I known what was going on.”
After half a cup of coffee, I told Kippy about what happened when Vira found Kari Jo Brockman’s body at the construction site.
“Vira is a special dog, of course, but what are you saying?” Kippy asked. “That she’s supernatural?”
It felt good to have someone who cared about Vira voice it in such a mild manner as to not make me sound all batshit crazy … well, maybe just a touch batshit crazy.
“I’ve been around dogs my entire life. I thought I’d seen everything. I don’t know if I’m ready to dive into supernatural or anything like that. Maybe if we think about Vira like we would about human beings—for every billion lunkheads farting about with a finger up their nose, there’s a true prodigy. Like a Mozart or an Einstein.” I scratched at my cheek. “Why should dogs be any different?”
“You know she was a hero that night in Forest Glen?”
“She was?”
Kippy had gotten the bulk of the story from Vira’s initial master—the woman who’d been staying with the drunken jackass. The woman told Kippy that in the week or so they’d had the puppy, Vira seemed more interested in what Granger was up to, in monitoring him instead of hanging out with the woman and her son. Vira was always peeking Granger’s way and once Granger even mentioned he got the feeling the little mutt was judging him—silently peering into his soul—and finding him wanting in some manner or another.
Of this I had no doubt.
And Vira had been a brave puppy that last night, when it all came crashing down. Evidently, Granger took sanctuary in his home office at night, surfing the web, slurping whiskey, and leaving his two houseguests to take care of the dog, to bond, to whatever. On an upper bookshelf sat a large glass goblet into which Granger dropped any gathered pennies at the end of the day. When the mother and son had first moved in with him, Granger had promised the boy that once the goblet was full, they’d run it through the change-counting machine at his bank, and he’d let the kid keep the proceeds. So any pennies the boy came across, or his mother handed him, he’d run into Granger’s office and add them to the penny collection.
That night the woman had stood in the hallway watching as her son went rushing into Granger’s office with hardly a glance in Granger’s direction, his fist clutching a handful of copper and zinc. Her son stretched up to seize the goblet’s stem, yanked it off the shelf, but he didn’t account for it now being three-fourths full of pennies and the weight spun him off balance. For a half second she thought her son might come through okay as he swayed for balance, like a medieval knight giving a drunken toast, but the chalice twisted sideways, creating a waterfall of pennies, before the kid dropped it altogether.
Shattered glass and a thousand pennies sprayed across the hardwood floor.
Her son stared up at Granger—who now stood beside his desk—saw something in Granger’s face, and turned to run. But he wasn’t fast enough, not nearly, and the tip of Granger’s right shoe connected with her son’s bottom side and the boy went sprawling through the open office door, out into the hallway … landing at the base of his mother’s feet.
And then—out of nowhere—Vira darted in front of them, coming to the rescue, offering Granger a big piece of her mind in a piercing puppy yap.
After that—the harried packing and rushed exit.
“I’ll be damned,” I said, looking down at my golden retriever. I flicked a pretzel off the tabletop for her to chase. “Of course she did. That’s my Vira.”
“To be honest, I have no idea how she survived in the garage with that truck running all evening.” Kippy sipped more coffee. “Granger died from carbon monoxide poisoning. He was in the kitchen with the door to the garage shut, but the fumes seeped inside and killed him—that’s how strong the carbon monoxide was. And when I first spotted Vira,” Kippy continued, shuddering at the remembrance, “there was no movement. No movement at all.”
“So you’re saying Vira sort of died that night and came back, or had some near-death experience … and, as a result, she has certain abilities?”
Officer Gimm shrugged. “I just know my little girl’s gifted, she’s a very special dog.” She continued scratching Vira’s neck. “In fact, she’s my Honey Bear,” Kippy said, digging a card from a pocket and sliding it across the table. “If Vira ever needs a doggie sitter, call me. Or,” she added, glancing from my black eye to the stitches at the base of my neck, “give me a call if you two goofballs find yourselves in trouble again.”
Five minutes later Kippy gave Vira an extended embrace, and then stepped outside and headed toward her squad car. Her on-duty shift was soon to begin, but Gimm appeared to have a bigger bounce in her step than when she’d first arrived to question me about Vira.
“Hey,” I blurted as Officer Gimm opened her driver’s door.
She looked back my way.
“Would, um, maybe, you like to grab a cup of coffee sometime?”
Kippy stared back at me. “We just had coffee.” Then she got in her squad car, shut the door, waved goodbye, more at Vira than me, and drove away.
I cringed, both internally and externally.
Perhaps a team of doctors could surgically reverse one of my legs so I could kick myself in the ass. I hadn’t asked a girl out since Mickie, in junior year of high school when I was a whopping sixteen years old, and here, just now, I’d made such a complete buffoon of myself. Officer Kippy Gimm shows up because she loves Vira, and she’s hoping I’m guilty as sin of pulling a fast one at Chicago Animal Care and Control in circumventing the “kill order,” which Paul and I had indeed done, and—after a reunion that would bring tears to the eyes of Ebenezer Scrooge—idiot me asks Kippy Gimm out on a date.
If only I had a dozen bags of industrial-grade lime, I’d get in the bathtub, c
oat myself in the stuff, and shoot myself in the temple. Then, a few days later, there’d be nothing left of me on planet Earth.
All this time, and it turns out I’m a moron.
Who knew?
CHAPTER 14
Even though it was the middle of the night, and even though he was cutting through a hazy patch of woods, Everyman wore a black ski mask to conceal his features. Mason Reid—Dog Man that he was—would get a glimpse of Everyman’s real face if the chance arose, if Everyman got lucky on this first outing … and then for only the briefest of seconds.
Everyman held a small flashlight in his left hand, but kept it pointed down at the hard soil to keep from stumbling into some ankle-breaking dip or hollow. In his right hand, a SIG Sauer 1911, also pointed down. His boots, jeans, and sweatshirt were as black as his ski mask. In all his time in the Windy City, he’d never ventured into the Cook County village of Lansing before and had spent the afternoon driving about the suburb, driving about Dog Man Reid’s neighborhood. Dog Man certainly had it good, a little slice of the rustic so close to the big city.
And before venturing into Lansing, Everyman had spent the morning zooming in, using Google Earth to view Dog Man’s house and the nearby property from above.
As the forest began to thin, Everyman cut wide left, wanting to study the front of Dog Man’s trailer house. He slowed his pace, did his best to keep as silent as possible, and reflected on what had brought him to this point … what had set him on this midnight hunt.
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