Chasing Tail

by Roxanne St Claire

  He’d have to leave town to move into another job, and he’d cut off his damn arm before he did that. He loved this town and wanted only to give back to it, which he’d done for years at this station. Running for mayor felt right to him, but apparently not to anyone else.

  Just like Sadie said, no one thought he took anything seriously, which wasn’t true, but changing people’s minds in a small town was no mean feat.

  “A great mayor?” Mike cleared his throat to line up his next joke, but Connor warded it off by waving the folded newspaper.

  “Declan spoke like a real brother,” he said, shooting a warning look at his fellow firefighter. He skimmed the article again, his gaze dropping to the last paragraph he hadn’t read yet. “Good God, I hope this is a mistake. Mitch Easterbrook might run? He’d be the worst mayor ever.”

  “Oh, he’s gonna run,” Ray said. “And no one has the balls to oppose him.”

  “The guy is a pompous, arrogant ass who siphons money from people at the worst time in their lives.” Mitch Easterbrook was the definition of unethical, despite the veneer of self-righteousness the funeral director wore like one of his thousand-dollar suits. “He can’t run for mayor.”

  “Oh, he is.” Ray nodded with the authority of a man married to the owner of a hair salon. “Barb does Mrs. Easterbrook’s highlights every three weeks. She’s already planning an over-the-top victory party at their mansion.”

  Connor grunted in disgust and pity, remembering the woman who was not Mrs. Easterbrook, whom an EMT crew once found in Mitch’s bed while on a medical call to that very mansion.

  “And he’ll win,” Mike added. “’Cause the undertaker knows where the bodies are buried.”

  While Cal snickered at the dumb joke, Connor dropped the paper and, he hoped, the conversation. As much as he hated the idea of Mitch Easterbrook as mayor of Bitter Bark, Connor couldn’t beat him without some kind of miracle. If his family and coworkers were already laughing at the idea, the whole town might, too, especially with the budget Easterbrook would—

  The electronic screech of an incoming call cut off every thought and word as they all froze for a millisecond to listen to the dispatch.

  “Engine One, Ladder One, Rescue One. Lost child, 609 Sweetgum Springs Road.”

  Connor didn’t hear much past lost child, knowing exactly how that dictated which vehicles would go—all of them if they needed rescue gear and medical—and what to wear. A lost child meant search and rescue, so he grabbed a neon vest because Sweetgum Springs meant they could be in thick woods east of town. He also snagged fire boots since they were water resistant, and the creek there could reach five feet in spring.

  The dispatch repeated the information, and every man and woman on duty moved with choreographed grace, processing the orders Declan barked out regarding vehicles, drivers, and personnel. But over his brother’s authoritative staccato, the words lost child echoed in their heads. Move, move, move. Minutes counted. Seconds counted. Everything counted.

  He hauled up to the passenger side of the ambulance, driven by Tasheema Soni, the paramedic on his crew he admired most. As always, Tash was silent and drove like she was on a racetrack, which was key since there were always the idiots who hit their brakes in the middle of the road or were driving with earbuds in. But his cool coworker was unfazed and focused. Of course. Lost child? This mother of two looked even more determined than ever.

  They rolled out behind Declan and his crew in the lead SUV, not waiting for the engine and brush pumper he knew would follow. They needed every person in the station and all the medical and rescue equipment on those trucks.

  “Not a good place to lose a kid,” he mused, narrowing his gaze at a minivan that swerved in a moment of panic when they approached, but finally managed to get out of the way.

  “Rushing springs and miles of woods? All those cliffs and ravines?” She shook her head. “No, it is not.”

  “Did you hear the call come in?” Connor knew Tash frequently monitored the dispatch center and sometimes knew before the captain or crew exactly what they were dealing with on a medical emergency.

  “Father home alone with a three-year-old. Took his eyes off the kid for one minute, which, lemme tell you, is all it takes. He is freaked the hell out.”

  Connor huffed out a breath, listening to the radioed progress of the trucks behind them, the vehicles in front of them, and the updates for the county sheriff and local police. After a minute, another dispatch came through from the Bitter Bark Police on-site, and Connor closed his eyes to get every word while the ambulance careened out of town toward Sweetgum Springs.

  “Boy, age three. Last seen in a red sweater, gray pants, and navy blue mittens. Disappeared from backyard. Father searched for an hour before calling the mother at work, who immediately called 911.”

  Connor felt every muscle and brain cell suck in the adrenaline, mentally reviewing his equipment, ready to fight a fire, save a life, or…find a three-year-old in a red sweater, gray pants, and navy blue mittens.

  Navy mittens. Navy mittens. He focused on that one detail as he used the app on the ambulance tablet to track the other vehicles and look at the hilly terrain of Sweetgum Springs.

  “Damn, those woods are dense,” he muttered, scanning the satellite image of the area around the target address. A new housing development backed up to the several square miles of woods full of hills and gullies. A winding creek cut through the center, fed from the snow currently melting at peak rate right now.

  “An hour?” Tash shook her head. “Come on. Who waits an hour to call 911?”

  “The guy frantically searching for his kid, sure he’ll find him any second?” Connor suggested.

  Tash shot him a look. “If it was my husband? He’d be the one needing a paramedic right now.”

  Connor didn’t even smile as they pulled up behind the captain’s SUV, not at all surprised to see Chief Winkler, head of the Bitter Bark FD, deep in conversation with two county sheriff deputies as an ad hoc command center was being set up.

  Tasheema and Connor leaped out of the ambulance and headed toward them just as the engine came screaming in and the crew emptied out. Not far away, a young couple huddled with a deputy sheriff, the woman wiping a constant stream of tears, the man talking with his hands, pointing at the woods behind the clapboard house with faux Craftsman columns.

  “The boy’s name is Dylan James O’Keefe,” Chief announced as he turned an electronic topographical map for all of them to view. “Blond hair, thirty-four pounds. Wearing a hooded red jersey, dark gray sweatpants, navy mittens. Last seen at approximately 9:45 a.m. in his backyard, near the fence along the woods. Captain Mahoney will break you into teams of two, and you’ll take the closest six sections of the grid.” He tapped the screen and leaned back, listening to the deputy on a cell phone next to him. “More rescuers are on the way from Holly Hills, and Simons Mill is sending search dogs,” he called out. “Let’s not need them, people. Move! Find Dylan!”

  In a matter of minutes, with little fanfare and zero confusion since Declan called the team shots, the twosomes were formed and fanned out. Connor and Ray Merritt hustled over a wooded hillside, heading toward the ravine area they’d been assigned.

  Connor had one thought pumping through his head with the blood and adrenaline. Red hoodie. Gray pants. Navy mittens. That’s all he had to see. Had to.

  The minute they were in the thick of the trees, the cloudy day seemed totally sunless, making it even more difficult to see, even though they both carried flashlights to shine into the darkest parts of the woods.

  “Dylan!” Connor stilled, waiting three seconds to listen for any sound. Red jacket. Gray pants. Navy mittens. “Dylan O’Keefe!” Red hoodie. Gray pants. Navy mittens. “Dylan!”

  He repeated the name and words like a mantra, lifting branches, checking under bushes, vaguely aware of Ray not thirty feet away, doing exactly the same thing. They moved south, pushing through bare trees, using their gloved hands to create visibili
ty, listening to the others calling the child’s name and waiting, silent, expectant, full of hope.

  He clung to that hope as they half slid down the side of a muddy hill toward the sound of rushing water.

  “Creek’s high,” Ray called. “I’ll go downstream. You search here.”

  Connor held up one hand in acknowledgment and squinted upstream through a thicket of pines near the edge of the water.

  “Dylan! Dylan O’Keefe!” Red hoodie. Gray pants. Navy mittens. “Dylan!”

  He didn’t even breathe, forcing himself to hear over the water, to block out anything but a three-year-old’s voice, crying, calling, or…

  Barking?

  The rescue dogs hadn’t come out yet, had they? Command would have radioed. A stray?

  He muted the comm device that hung around his neck, needing to block out every other sound but the one he’d heard. He leaned into the soft breeze, away from the stream, listening for…

  A bark. Again. Once, twice, insistent. That was no coyote. A wolf could bark, but it was rare and just didn’t sound like that. That had to be a dog. No one had mentioned the family having a dog, so what was one doing out here?

  He got his footing in the mud and climbed over rocks and a rotted, fallen tree, sensing but not knowing that the sound came from the other side of those pines. He resisted the urge to call for the child, not at all sure what he’d find when he came around the green thicket.

  He aimed his flashlight, took a step closer, heard another single bark.

  Come on now, Dylan. Red hoodie. Gray pants. Navy…

  He stared at the shredded, soaking-wet mitten on the ground, blinking in disbelief. He looked at the ledge maybe fifteen feet above him, spying its mate hanging from a root that jutted out.

  Did he fall off that cliff and into the water? Just as he opened his mouth to call for Ray, a golden head with two pointy ears and topaz eyes appeared in the pines next to him and barked right in his face.

  “Whoa there.” Connor reached out a hand, not at all sure what to make of the creature as it came out of the pines. The dog had the face of a Staffy, the body of a Lab, retriever paws, and a tail that had to come from a…Husky? “Hey, Frankendog. You see a little boy around here?”

  He barked again and jumped, slapping massive paws on Connor’s chest to bark right in his face. As Connor backed up, the dog put his nose down and lifted the mitten in his teeth, water dripping from the wool.

  Holy shit. “You have?” Without thinking, he rubbed the dog’s head, giving him praise and encouragement. “Where?” He flicked the mitten the dog held tight in his teeth.

  The dog looked up, and Connor followed his gaze to the other mitten, dangling above them.

  “Did he come from up there, buddy? Did he fall? Where is he?” He stood, and the dog instantly turned and darted back through the pines.

  Connor followed, vaguely aware of his face being scratched by needles. He barely took three steps before the dog stopped and chewed on the mitten like it was lunch, staring behind the bush. Connor launched closer, shoved the branches to the side, and saw the tiny body. The hood of the dark red, wet jacket had fallen over a soaked blond head down in the dirt.

  He squeezed the button of his lapel mic and dropped to his knees to put a light hand on Dylan O’Keefe’s drenched back. He’d been in the creek. He’d been in the water, and the dog…

  “We got him,” he announced into the device. “Area six. Mahoney and Merritt, at the creek.”

  Almost immediately, he could hear Ray reading off detailed coordinates as his footsteps grew louder behind Connor. But Connor ignored everything and leaned over the child.

  Please, kid. Please. Please.

  Lightly lifting the wet hood, he carefully placed his ear to the child’s mouth and felt the tickle of a warm breath.

  Oh, thank God.

  As Connor straightened to radio the crew, the dog next to him licked his cheek, a long, slow, grateful slurp.

  “Good work, bud.” He looked into the green-gold eyes and could see relief pump through the dog’s mismatched body. He pulled him in for a hug. “Damn good work.”

  * * *

  “Media wants you, Lieutenant Mahoney.”

  Connor put down the water bottle on the bumper of the engine, squinting up at Chief Winkler. “Me? Dec’s the captain.”

  As soon as he spoke, the dog lying next to him on the grass picked up his head, keeping his gaze on Connor, his precious navy mitten under his giant paw as if he feared someone might take the proof of his moment of glory.

  “Well, they can’t interview the dog.” Chief kept a wide berth around the beast who growled warily at everyone but Connor, whose side he hadn’t left even during all the action of getting Dylan warmed, treated for hypothermia, and taken to the hospital with a second ambulance crew. “So I guess you’re the next best thing, since you found our hero.”

  “No one’s showed up yet to claim him?”

  Chief shook his head. “No collar, no tag, no chip. Put him on the news, and if his owner’s around, he’ll come.”

  Something told Connor this boy had no owner. He was rough, filthy, starving, and smelled like he dined on dead animals. Connor had already caught him gnawing on a stone twice. The dog backed away from anyone who came close, unless they had a treat, then he jumped and slammed his paws and barked in their faces.

  But Connor could have sworn the mutt gave a smug look to the two Belgian Malinois that showed up all polished and chomping for a rescue. You can go home, boys, his look said. Carcass Breath already did the heavy lifting today.

  “Come on, Connor.” Chief gestured him toward the small group of local reporters and handheld cams that had gathered sometime in the last hour or so. “You love the media. You were born for this, LT.”

  He kind of was, he mused as he pushed off and popped to the ground, tilting his head toward the dog. “Hey, bud. Your adoring public awaits.”

  The dog stood and gave a marvelous full-body shake, his torso shimmying from his barrel chest that showed plenty of ribs to that ridiculous tail that curled up and around like an apostrophe over his ass.

  “Let’s go make the ladies swoon, Frankendog.”

  Instantly, the dog leaped up, throwing his body weight at Connor.

  “Hey! No jumping!” Connor ordered.

  The dog hung his head, and Connor realized he was reacting to his tone, not his words.

  “Oh, buddy, come on.” He crouched down and put his hands on the big yellow head, but the dog jerked back. “It’s okay, man. You’re the hero today. Easy does it. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  Connor tucked the navy mitten in his pocket and put a strong hand on the dog’s head. Together, they walked across the O’Keefes’ front lawn. The dog stayed right next to him, matching his pace and looking up with a mix of hope and fear in his golden eyes.

  “You know what?” he said to the dog. “Nobody claims you, you’re mine. I’ll take you out to Waterford Farm and put my dog-training cousins to work. How’s that sound?”

  “Lieutenant Mahoney!” A young man holding a microphone and shoulder cam broke from the small pack to reach him first. “Jack Wells, stringer for the ABC affiliate in Charlotte. Can you tell us what happened? How did you find Dylan O’Keefe?”

  The others moved to catch up with him as if Connor were some kind of celebrity and they were a pack of paparazzi. Instantly, the dog growled.

  “Back away, ladies and gents. Our boy needs his space. We do not know if he eats journalists.”

  They laughed nervously and made a cautious semicircle around them, while Connor kept a steady, ready hand on Jumpin’ Jack Flash.

  “I didn’t find Dylan,” he finally said to the man who’d asked the first question. “I found this guy right here, who led me right to the boy.”

  “Do you think the dog pulled the kid from the creek?” a middle-aged woman he recognized as a reporter for the Bitter Bark Banner asked.

  “No question about it.” He smiled down at
the dog and rubbed his head. “I’m sure the scene analysts can tell you more, but Dylan’s sweatshirt had a few rips in it consistent with this dog’s teeth.”

  “But he didn’t bite the child?” someone called out.

  “He dragged him from the rushing creek water using his mouth and instinct,” Connor said. “And he wouldn’t leave the boy until help came.” He couldn’t help smiling at the dog as he snagged the mitten from where it stuck out of Connor’s pocket and swished his ridiculous tail as he gazed up, waiting for praise, which Connor heaped.

  The whole group laughed and shifted every camera to the furry star.

  “What kind of dog is it?” the TV guy asked.

  “What kind of dog isn’t he is probably a better question,” Connor shot back.

  “Who owns him?”

  “We’re trying to find out.”

  “How did you feel when you found the child?”

  “Like there really is a God.”

  “What’s the dog’s name?”

  Connor looked at the mutt, rooting around for a good, heroic name, like Underdog or Supermutt or MittenMan, but he was just…Frankendog. “Frank. I’m calling him Frank.”

  More muffled laughter. “Frank?” the Bitter Bark Banner reporter asked, with just enough edge in her voice to put him on alert. “Why would you call him Frank?”

  Was Frankendog politically incorrect? Would he offend anyone with that joke? Not that he cared, but the department did, and Chief Winkler was on the sidelines watching this.

  “Is he named for someone special?” she pressed, her eyes narrowing a little, making him suspect she might pounce on the name because of some kind of negative connotation to a monster.

  “Yes, he is named for someone special,” he said, rubbing his hand on the dog’s head to buy some time as a line from that morning’s paper flashed in his head. Hell, this lady might have written it, for all he knew. “I named him after Mayor Frank Wilkins, one of the greatest leaders Bitter Bark ever had.”