Mother's Day, the Krewe, and a Really Big Dog

by Heather Graham

  Mother's Day, the Krewe, and a Really Big Dog

  Heather Graham

  Slush Pile Productions

  Copyright © 2020 Heather Graham

  Mother’s Day, the Krewe, and a Really Big Dog Copyright © 2020 by Slush Pile Productions

  All rights reserved. This publication may not be reproduced, in whole or in part, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, including electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior express written permission of the author. Unauthorized reproduction of this material, electronic or otherwise, will result in legal action.

  Please report the unauthorized distribution of this publication by contacting the author at theoriginalheathergraham.com, via email at connie@perryco.biz, or at Heather Graham 103 Estainville Ave., Lafayette, LA 70508. Please help stop internet piracy by alerting the author with the name and web address of any questionable or unauthorized distributor.

  Mother’s Day, the Krewe, and a Really Big Dog is a work of fiction. The people and events in Mother’s Day, the Krewe, and a Really Big Dog are entirely fictional. The story is not a reflection of historical or current fact, nor is the story an accurate representation of past or current events. Any resemblance between the characters in this novel and any or all persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  Mother’s Day, the Krewe, and a really big Dog

  A short Krewe story, approximately 7,000 words, and told from a different perspective, and with a different take on the Krewe!

  Angela Hawkins is being stalked—right before her first Mother’s Day. But unbeknownst to the stalker, the stalker is being stalked in turn.

  The situation might be deadly, Jackson is worried. But through a different kind of assistance, disaster might be averted because questions will be raised, and while there is no easy solution, there is often so much more than meets the eye. A mother’s love for her children is often infinite.

  And on Mother’s Day . . .

  Love knows no bounds.

  Mother’s Day, the Krewe, and a Really Big Dog

  I need to begin by letting you know that I wasn’t stalking the woman.

  I was afraid for her.

  I’d started hanging around the townhouse in Alexandria soon after the couple had begun; they fascinated me. They belonged to something that was unofficially known as the Krewe of Hunters.

  Now, don’t get me wrong. The world is filled with decent people. I honestly believe it’s a small percentage who are . . . evil, for lack of a better word. Some are mentally ill, and that illness causes them to torture and kill. Maybe anyone who could callously kill another person is mentally ill, but then again maybe, as I sometimes believe, they are just evil.

  But the thing of it is this—I watched her first. I watched the way she would set out milk or bowls of food if she saw a stray cat or dog. She’d tried to get them when she could and make sure she either got the creature to a vet for care or found a home for it. I know one cat that lived at their offices for several weeks. Luckily, none of their Krewe agents or techs is allergic to cats.

  Her name is Angela Hawkins. She’s married to Jackson Crow, Field Supervisor for the Krewe of Hunters. She’s an attractive woman with golden blond hair and light eyes, but it’s her smile and the way she cares that makes her so lovely in my mind. I knew she was kick-ass, and she went into the field now and then, but her work in the office was so important to others that she didn’t go that often. I admit I am a bit enthralled. But, again, I wasn’t stalking her.

  I was looking after her.

  Of course, because of her, I started watching him.

  He’s a cool looking dude. Tall and fit—agents spend a fair amount of time in the gym and many take extra classes in self-defense—so yeah, he’s going to be fit. He has very dark hair, light eyes, and bronze skin. And those eyes of his against his skin color . . . well, I can only imagine him in an interrogation room. He worked some damned tough cases before being called in when Adam Harrison—called on quietly time and again because he had such a talent for finding the right people to get to the bottom of strange cases—formed the special unit of the FBI. I know all this, of course, because I know where to go and how to listen. Luckily, that’s easy for me. I’m all but invisible to most people.

  That’s why I saw the man who was watching her. Following her. Stalking her.

  Now, these people are careful. They go after the most ungodly murderers as their vocation from positions on high.

  They have a damned good security system. They lock their doors. They’re good at self-defense.

  But Mother’s Day was approaching. And she was particularly happy that year. They’d adopted a young boy without a home just after Christmas, and they’d discovered they were about to become natural parents to a babe as well. She was humming all the time. And she liked to sit on the steps with her son reading, doing homework with him. School was on-line, and she made sure he kept to it! He was a great kid. Oh, they were normal—well, as normal as anyone could be wearing masks and making sure they stayed six-feet away from one another.

  Yeah, masks . . . people in masks.

  The man who followed her was crafty. He kept his distance. He always wore a mask and a hoodie. He had hoodies in different colors and different masks. If I weren’t on the lookout and aware of what was going on, I might not have realized it was the same man.

  Well, that and the way Kelly was barking.

  Kelly was a stray. Probably one of the ugliest strays I’ve ever seen. I say was, because she wasn’t a stray anymore. Angela had taken her in. She had been hurt. Some dirtbag threw her out a car window, and Angela took her to her vet. She couldn’t place her in a good home, and she now had a kid, Corby. Corby fell in love with the dog. Now Corby is one damned good-looking kid; but until Angela and Jackson had come along, the orphanage had had trouble placing him because he was mixed race. That didn’t bother Angela and Jackson. Jackson was half Native American and maybe Irish or something like that. The agency had told them he might have trouble because some white people might not like the black and some black people might not like the white. But Angela and Jackson didn’t care; Jackson had found that confusing. They were all people, the human family. They’d deal with anything that came up as a family.

  But I think Corby saw something of himself in poor Kelly. So, Kelly—this little sucker looks like a cross between a pot-bellied pig and a Scottie—now has a home. With Angela and Jackson and Corby. Man, I do mean an ugly dog—a serious underbite and short, stubby, little bowed legs. But she could be fierce, in the way all tiny dogs could be fierce. And she loved her family!

  So, back to Mother’s Day—it was a few days before, and Angela was taking Kelly for a walk. I was just watching. Then I saw Kelly stop in the street and start barking.

  The man slipped behind a UPS truck; Angela couldn’t see him.

  I could; he was still watching her from behind the truck.

  “Kelly! Hey, it’s all right, girl, you don’t have to be afraid of everything now. You’re with us. Come on, let’s get back in. We still have to be very careful. I love our walks, but I see more people on bikes and out walking, and I didn’t bring my mask just to run you around the block. So come on, girl, we’ll get back in.”

  I could see Kelly looking at me. There’s a lot you can read in the way a dog looks at you.

  Kelly saw something really wrong with the guy. Dogs tend to know their stuff.

  I decided to follow the man, and I tried. But he jumped into a car down the street and was gone before I could reach him.

  I would just have to keep watching out for her.
>
  *

  “You okay?” Jackson asked Angela.

  He had just come home; Angela had been working from home. They had many agents out in the field. Sadly, lockdown didn’t prevent crime in the country.

  They were essential.

  Jackson was working from the office, and they were following strict protocol there, keeping distances from one another when they had to be in, and wearing masks.

  The hard part for them, of course, was the criminal element didn’t always believe in following protocol or wearing masks; so when at the office, they were all extremely careful.

  He had convinced Angela to stay home as much as possible, and it was logical because she did a great deal of work via computer. She was also helping Corby with his schoolwork, and she knew everyone was paranoid about her or for her because she was expecting her first child.

  He had wanted so much for Angela on this, her first with Mother’s Day approaching. When the adoption had gone through, he had wanted to get her a day at the spa, flowers, chocolate . . . anything and everything. They had wanted children for a long time, and now, this was her first Mother’s Day. Corby was their child, legally all dotted and signed; and while they were all new at the arrangement, the love was there. And his little sibling would be along in a few months.

  Angela was sitting at her desk; Corby was playing an online game with friends. The dog was curled up on Angela’s feet.

  Kelly stretched and wagged her tail at Jackson’s arrival, but she didn’t bother to get up. She was with Angela. Jackson knew the dog liked him, too; but, hey, Kelly loved Angela and she was comfortable.

  “Me?” Angela looked up at Jackson. “I’m good—found some info for a case Kat and Will are on, sent a few dossiers on to a few other agents . . . I got a call, though, from Detective Henson.”

  “George?” Jackson said.

  She nodded. The D.C. police detective was someone Jackson worked with often. While they lived in Alexandria, Virginia, and the Krewe offices were in Virginia as well, due to the geographical layout of Washington, D.C., situations often spread out over Virginia, Maryland, and beyond.

  George was a great guy; he had been with the force for twenty years. He was careful and logical and determined, never flying off the handle, but ever alert and thoughtful.

  “And?”

  “He said it was a heads-up. He isn’t sure if someone getting a bit of cabin fever is acting out, or if it’s a real threat. But they received calls today from a burner phone that can’t be traced, warning Mother’s Day is on the horizon—and there will be retribution.”

  “Retribution—for what?”

  “The caller didn’t say. Listen. He sent me an audio file.”

  She hit a key on her computer and played the file. The voice one might expect in such a call—low, rough, and raspy, possibly manipulated—came on.

  “Mother’s Day! Flowers and candy and . . . retribution! Someone will pay!”

  Jackson sank into a chair, staring at her. “What did George think? A prank—or real?”

  “He doesn’t know; he just called because he said it was a head’s up.”

  “Still,” Jackson murmured. “Crank calls and real calls come in every day. He doesn’t call us.”

  “It isn’t a Krewe situation,” Angela said. “George said the call was to the police; the police are trying to fathom what is going on. He is worried, though.” She hesitated. “I may be able to help him.”

  “By?”

  “Research. Looking for situations that occurred on Mother’s Day.”

  Jackson nodded. As he did so, he felt his own phone buzz. He looked at the caller I.D.

  Not available.

  But he answered anyway. “Crow.”

  “Pay back, my friend. It’s coming.”

  It was the same voice he had just heard, possibly manipulated, possibly not.

  “Pay back for what?” Jackson asked.

  “Mother’s Day . . . and cops and agents who don’t give a fig about mothers!”

  The line went dead.

  Angela stared at him.

  “I guess you’d best get on that research,” he told her.

  *

  I slid up next to Kelly when Angela and the boy took her out for a walk.

  Dogs are different from people. Well, that’s obvious, but a dog has certain senses that just come naturally. They don’t have to worry about looking crazy or being afraid of what others might think.

  “Morrie!” Kelly said, greeting me. To the humans, it sounded like a little yap.

  “Come on, Kelly. We don’t stay out too long, and we’re lucky we’re residential, and we can take walks,” Angela said.

  Kelly wagged her tail and quickened her pace. Now, people are sometimes talented—it’s rare. Maybe it’s genetic; I don’t know. Angela, Corby, and Jackson can all see the dead—well, the dead when it comes to people. They didn’t see me.

  I guess I should explain. I’m Morrie. In life, I was as fabulous looking Irish Wolfhound. I wasn’t mistreated; I was loved by my owner, Bobby, who died because of a seizure. His wife then cared for me, and I lived out my days and died at a ripe old age. Why I came back as a ghost dog, I don’t know. Except that maybe it’s to help my friends. Sally, a pointer, was left out in the snow and froze to death. Ruff, a pit bull, was euthanized when it went around that all pit bulls were bad—hm. In my mind, the humans who bred them to fight are the ones who should have been euthanized! But I digress. I’m a dog and I’m a ghost. A dog-ghost. And I guess I watch out for Angela mainly because she does try to save so many of my friends.

  “Meet me in the house,” Kelly told me. “If I start yapping here, they’re going to head straight back to the house and I really gotta go!”

  I groaned softly. It was rude just to come in people’s houses and I . . . well . . . maybe I was afraid of being seen, thrown out . . . somehow sent on my way.

  But she knew something and I needed to know it.

  “I’ll be there,” I said.

  I followed them back. We were almost there when I heard the footsteps. I turned quickly, but whoever was out there had disappeared behind a tree or down or up steps to a door.

  There was no one on the street. But I went back, racing down the street to see who it had been. They couldn’t have completely disappeared, and remember I was an Irish wolfhound—I could run!

  And still, I missed him. A car was pulling away from the curb. A sedan, maroon in color. I wasn’t sure of the make, and the tags were covered in mud.

  I hurried back and slipped into the house a few minutes after Angela, Corby, and Kelly had returned to it. I saw Kelly had taken up a spot in the parlor away from the others. Corby was in the family room—actually reading one of his schoolbooks! Angela was busy on the computer, and Jackson was sitting near her in the office.

  “So, what? Tell me!” I begged Kelly.

  And Kelly told me about strange phone calls that had gone to the police and to Jackson himself.

  Someone wanted to hurt others, payback, on Mother’s Day.

  “He’s out there; he’s watching this house,” I told Kelly. “He’s watching Angela.”

  “That makes no sense! She doesn’t do anything that isn’t right or good.”

  “But he’s watching her and now I’m really afraid.”

  “What are we going to do?” Kelly asked. “I mean, in life, you were bigger than most people. I’m just a little bit of a thing and ugly as all hell at that. But I’d protect Angela with my life—I mean, I have a life, because of her!”

  “He’s out there,” I said. “The phone calls . . . the stalker. For whatever reason, he’s after our Angela!”

  “I have to tell Jackson and Angela,” Kelly said. “I can’t tell Jackson and Angela. I’m a dog! I can bark my fool head off, and they won’t have a clue.”

  We had to think of something.

  Tomorrow was Saturday. Then . . . Mother’s Day.

  “Stay here; stay in the house with me,” Kelly
said.

  I wasn’t their dog; I had never been their dog. But . . .

  It was a warm and beautiful home. Oh, I’d seen Jackson and Angela argue; they weren’t Barbie and Ken. But they were good people. They chastised Corby when needed—he was a kid.

  It was the kind of home where I could have been really happy.

  I nodded. I was staying.

  *

  “Not even our people can trace anything; it’s a burner phone this guy is using. Angela, you can’t go out of the house. I mean, we’re a bit homebound at the moment anyway, but I’ll be walking the dog until we find out what’s going on,” Jackson said.

  “That’s not logical. You might have to go into the office,” Angela said. “I’m a crack shot—you know that.”

  “Sure, if you know what you’re shooting at,” Jackson said. “But this is . . . strange. This is someone who might be watching. The street is laden with trees, and it’s spring and they’re rich with fresh growth; and while there isn’t a lot of traffic, there are cars parked out there sometimes.”

  “But why would I be in specific danger?” Angela demanded. “The threat isn’t against me. And I swear, I never did anything to anyone on Mother’s Day. I have found a few interesting cases that might have something to do with this.”

  “Go on.”

  “I’ve sent what I’ve found on to George, too. I have printouts for you to read. But two years ago, there was a case in D.C. where there was an auto accident on Mother’s Day. The driver who caused the accident was drunk and the arresting officer was angry—a child in the other car went to the hospital in critical condition. But the drunk driver wound up dying, he hit his head, and he was put in lockup and died. He’d been with his mother; she survived. She lives in Maryland. George is calling friends; they’ll be visiting her.”

  “Well, that’s great, but I don’t know what good it will do. They can’t just search her home for the phone, and she’s probably going to be furious. She filed a suit against the police and the state, if I remember correctly.”