by K. A. Tucker
His forehead wrinkles. “The office really should be phoning this guy to let him know we’re coming.”
“So he has time to hide what he doesn’t want you seeing?”
“Yeah, makes you wonder, right?” He taps against the clipboard on my lap, holding the complaint form I filled out on the way here. A case file number is already scrawled across the top in Howie’s scribble. “You done with that?”
“Yeah. Everything’s there.” All the facts provided to me—minus Bonnie’s baseless accusations—after the Hatchetts arrived at my clinic.
“At least we’re doing some of this by the book. You know it’s already going to be a tough sell. And we can’t just barrel in there with accusations. We don’t even know if the dog is his.”
“I know.” She’s not microchipped. I already scanned her.
“Okay, then. Let’s go stir up some shit.” He slides out of the driver’s side and rustles around in the toolbox in his truck bed, pulling out his bolt cutters.
In his jeans and parka, with wisps of hair peeking out from beneath his knitted Giants cap, Howie cuts through the mushing facility’s entrance gate—and nothing about this Sunday afternoon looks “by the book.” But showing up here like two regular people who found a wandering dog, rather than an animal control officer and a veterinarian hunting for an abuser, might get us the information we need.
I shift my attention to our nervous passenger in the back, offering her a gloveless hand to sniff. Though skittish, she’s beginning to warm to me already. I would have preferred leaving her at the clinic, if we’re coming out here to accuse this guy of cruelty, we need the victim with us. “Don’t worry, we’ll get you fixed up, good as new,” I promise.
A white lie. The dog’s in rough shape. How rough, I can’t say yet. Cory’s running a few preliminary blood tests while the more complex ones will have to go to a lab. I did what I could for the oozing sores, cleaning and applying ointment, and dosing her with a round of antibiotics. She’ll need a special feeding plan to put some meat on her bones, and the abscess on her gums will require close attention.
In moments, Howie has cut the chain and pushed the gate open, fastening it to a nearby tree to keep it that way. Tossing the cutters back into his toolbox, he climbs in and throws the truck into gear, and we’re heading down the gravel driveway toward a plume of smoke. The snowy Talkeetna Mountains cut into the cold, crisp blue sky.
The spectacular view does little for the knots in my stomach, as I wish whatever situation we’re walking into could be over already. I’m not made for confrontation. Not like Jonah, who strolls headfirst into a tense situation and bucks around like a bronco with a cowboy spurring its haunches. But I can dig up courage when I’m protecting a helpless animal, and one look at this dog draws searing anger to my tongue.
In the clearing ahead is a ranch-style house with a wraparound deck, designed to enjoy the view. Several outbuildings are scattered throughout, their open doors revealing the various storage purposes—wood, ATVs, tools. It’s typical of any rural Alaskan property I’ve ever stepped foot on.
What’s not typical is the looming barn to our left, freshly clad in vivid red siding that reminds me of the barns in Sweden I saw many years ago as a college student backpacking across Europe for the summer between first and second year.
“He’s got a nice piece of land here.” Howie parks behind a side-by-side utility vehicle. “How many acres you thinkin’? A hundred? Two?”
“The Dansons had horses, so a fair amount, I’m guessing.” And this Tyler guy is clearly using those stalls. Someone—I doubt the Dansons—has spent a considerable amount of money, and not just on the barn. Closed-panel fence boards that easily reach seven feet high begin at the side of the barn and extend far beyond my view.
“He’s got money to burn.” Howie sizes up the new construction as well. “With the range and Little Su in his backyard, this guy must have paid a pretty penny to set up shop here.” With a glance at the dog in his back seat, Howie cranks the heat and leaves the truck running as he exits. The slamming door earns a nervous jump from her.
“You stay here.” I scratch her head and then climb out. The frigid air claws at me as I round the hood of the rumbling truck. My breath billows in a frost-coated cloud. “How do you want to do this?”
He scratches his stubbled chin in thought. “Here’s how it’s gonna go: We got a report of abuse that we’re investigating. Even though this is a registered kennel, we’re walking in here on the assumption that she’s a pet and protected by those laws and not livestock laws, which don’t always work in our favor.”
Because sled dogs are considered “livestock” in the Mat-Su region—a classification that infuriates me to no end.
“As far as I’m concerned, this animal isn’t getting adequate care, no matter what. From there, I’ll see what kind of fines and whatnot I can ding him with.” The look on Howie’s face says he’s not overly confident.
I grit my jaw with grim determination. “Get me proof that this guy is neglecting these dogs, and I’ll take it to the ITC.” We might not be able to shut down his kennel, but I can have him disqualified and banned from all future races.
“First, we need to see if he’s home.” Howie’s head swivels, stalling on the olive-green pickup truck that sits nearby, wearing the eight inches of snow that fell overnight. The owner clearly hasn’t taken it out, and I don’t see any tracks to suggest there’s a second vehicle.
But there are fresh tracks.
He drags his boot across the snowmachine trail that leads out into the woods beyond. “Someone’s out and about today.”
Everyone’s out and about today, I want to say. It’s a sunny albeit frigid day for playing in the snow, and with the days as short as they are right now, people are taking advantage. We must have passed a dozen sledders on our drive up here, speeding along paths and coasting over frozen lakes.
The barn’s heavy door slides open and a head donning a fur-lined trapper hat pokes out.
“You Tyler Brady?” Howie hollers.
A dog barks in answer, followed by a second, and then a cacophony erupts from within the red barn and somewhere beyond as the dogs realize they have visitors.
From this distance and against the bright sun, it’s hard to make out a face, but the guy looks young. Too young to own a place like this, all gangly limbs in his muck-covered navy ski pants and no coat to hide his skinny arms. The barn must be heated.
His head jerks from left to right as he frantically searches for something—or someone—but he doesn’t answer.
Howie steals a curious look my way.
I can only shrug before calling out, “I think we found a dog that belongs to you.”
That seems to trigger something in him. Reaching inside the barn, he produces a heavy winter coat and tugs it on before yanking the door shut behind him. He approaches us warily, his shoulders hunched, his Sorels dragging with each step.
The closer he gets, the younger I see he is. Late teens, maybe twenty. At almost thirty-eight, I’m finding it harder to pinpoint ages—teenage boys all look so young—but he has the sort of soft features that might still harden with age.
The boy comes within ten feet of us before stopping abruptly. His hat is pulled down low, hovering above large brown eyes.
“Hey, how are ya doin’ today?” Howie asks cordially. That’s how he approaches every situation, no matter how volatile it might be. Of all the animal control officers at the station, Howie is the easiest to work with. He’s also the most enthusiastic about his job and the most liberal with delivering fines.
The guy nods before stammering, “Good.”
“Are you Tyler?”
He shakes his head. “No … Tyler’s, he’s out.”
Howie points at the tracks. “On his snowmachine?”
“Yes, sir.”
Howie pauses as if considering how he wants to proceed. The guy keeps shifting on his feet and stealing glances toward the woods. He seems n
ervous. “You by any chance missing a female husky with one blue eye and one golden-brown? Blonde coloring?”
“Yeah. That’s where Tyler is. I mean, he’s out looking for her right now, over there.” He throws a gloved hand in the direction of the trail. “Left awhile ago, right after we realized she wandered off.”
Bonnie and Harry were right to come to me. If Tyler Brady is treating his sled dogs like this, he shouldn’t be allowed near them.
The guy’s furtive gaze darts to me. “So, you said you have her?”
I take a calming breath. “We do. She’s in the truck, where it’s warm.”
“Oh. Okay.” He rubs the back of his neck and then, after a moment, says, “So … I can take her back now, then?”
Over my dead body.
“You have a way of getting hold of Tyler?” Howie smiles easily. “I just have a few questions about the dog—”
“Nymeria. That’s her name.”
“Game of Thrones fans?”
The guy offers a toothy grin that transforms his face. “Yes, sir. I am. Tyler said it’s unoriginal, but he let me name her, anyway.”
Howie chuckles. “I think it’s a great name. And sorry, I didn’t catch yours?”
“Reed, sir,” he falters. “My name’s Reed.”
“Well, Reed, I think it’d be a good idea for us to have that conversation with Tyler before we bring Nymeria over. The truck’s warm. She should be nice and comfortable in there while we wait.”
Reed scratches his chin with a gloved hand. “What kinds of questions?”
“Just want to know a bit more about her. Like how old she is, where you keep her, what she’s been eating, things like that.”
“Oh.” The guy shifts on his feet. “Is Tyler gonna be in trouble?”
“For what?” I blurt out, earning a warning glance from Howie.
Reed swallows hard. “He just figured he might be, if anyone ever found her here.”
This kid is giving us all the information we need, I think with grim satisfaction. The asshole knows what he’s been doing to that dog is wrong, and he’s trying to hide it.
“We just want to talk to him for now. Learn a little more about this dog.” Howie nods toward the barn, where a cacophony of high-pitched barks carry. “Say, how many puppies you got in there?”
“None.”
Howie frowns with doubt. “None?”
“I mean, yeah, we got two, but we’re not sellin’ them, if that’s what you’re askin’. People keep comin’ here, looking for puppies to buy, but we’re not breedin’ them for sale.”
“Are you breeding them to race?”
“Yes, sir. We will. Those that wanna race, anyway.”
My stomach tightens. “And what about the ones that don’t want to race?”
My ears catch a familiar whir.
Reed’s head jerks to the right, toward the growing sound. A figure on a snowmachine appears from the thicket of trees, moving at a slower pace, presumably to keep stride with the eight dogs running alongside him, tether-free. They move in unison, two by two, as if harnessed, their powerful legs charging through the snow.
“Damn.” There’s no missing the admiration in the single word as Howie watches the dogs. “Is that Tyler?”
Reed’s head bobs.
“Okay, then. We’ll just wait here until he gets home, and then we’ll have ourselves a little chat.” Howie rubs his gloves together, his gaze darting to mine, his eyebrow arching in a let me do the talking way.
They round the bend and the clearing. A male voice shouts something and then the snowmachine speeds up. Suddenly, it’s racing toward us, the dogs chasing after, never breaking formation.
I straighten my back and ignore the urge to huddle within my heavy coat as the man pulls up and cuts the engine. His face is hidden behind a black balaclava and goggles. No helmet. There’s no law requiring one in Alaska, but it tells me that on top of everything else, this guy has no common sense.
He throws a leg over the seat and climbs off his snowmachine. Meanwhile, Reed drops to his knees, calling the dogs to him by name with an ease he didn’t have for us. They rush straight for his open arms, tongues lolling from their panting mouths.
Tyler Brady has beautiful sled dogs, I’ll admit. Not the fluffy purebred Disney dogs that are great for tourism photo ops and leisure mushing. These are the typical leaner version of huskies that uneducated people mistake for underfed when they’re consuming upward of ten thousand calories a day during training. I can already see that malnourishment is not the case here, the dogs’ winter coats thick and full, and marked in every shade of black, brown, and gray. There are a couple unusual ones in the mix, too—one has a curled tail and a wolflike appearance, its fur a mottled mix of silver and ash. A Siberian Laika, possibly.
While doing a visual inspection from twenty feet away doesn’t tell me much, I can see healthy white teeth and pink gums, no limps, and no ghastly wounds like the ones on Nymeria.
But these are his racing dogs, I remember. He might treat them differently from the ones who won’t take him across the finish line.
“Tyler Brady?” Howie asks.
“And you are …” The muffled question—a demand, really—is delivered with a brusque and slightly Midwestern twang. Montana or Wyoming. Certainly not Scandinavia.
“Howie Fulford. I’m an animal care officer for the borough.”
Tyler’s head swivels toward me, and though I can’t see his eyes through the iridescent shield, I feel them weighing on me.
I clear my throat. “I’m Marie Lehr, a local veterinarian who sometimes helps out Howie.”
“Helps out with what, exactly?” Tyler adjusts his stance and folds his arms across his chest. He’s made no effort to remove his gear yet, and it’s intimidating to face a masked man. “Cutting chains and trespassing on private property?”
Howie clears his throat. He also senses the tension radiating from this man. A man who stands a few inches over six feet, with a lean but sturdy frame. I’d hazard an athlete’s body hides beneath that one-piece suit. Someone who can compete in—and win—a thousand-mile race.
But Tyler doesn’t have the upper hand here, I remind myself. “Someone brought a female husky into my clinic this morning. They thought she might belong to you. Your—” I look to the young man scratching the head of one of the dogs. Is Reed his hired help? His son? Not likely, given he’s only called him Tyler, but I have no idea if Tyler is old enough to have a son this age. He’s still hidden from head to toe. “Reed confirmed that you’re missing a husky.”
“We are,” he says slowly, evenly.
“Is she yours?” Howie pipes in. “One blue eye, one brown? Blonde fur.”
Tyler is quiet for a moment, as if sizing him up. “Based on your description, sounds like her.”
Two of the other dogs have grown curious and now approach us cautiously, their heads bowed as they sniff the air. They have little red booties on to protect their feet during their run.
Howie gives one of them—a black elkhound—a hand to sniff. “Okay, well, we have some concerns for her welfare that I’d like to discuss with you.”
I brace myself for Tyler’s claims that she’s fine, well cared for. For us to mind our own goddamn business and get off his property.
He reaches up to tug off his goggles and balaclava, revealing a stony expression.
Despite my anger, my breath hitches. If I didn’t want this guy arrested and thrown in jail—and fined so severely that his bank accounts are empty for the next ten years after he gets out—I would consider him attractive. He must be around my age—midthirties—with a full head of dark ash-brown hair and a few days of scruff coating a face cut in sharp angles.
He turns to Reed. “You okay? They didn’t give you a hard time?”
“Yes. I mean, no, they weren’t too bad,” he stumbles over his words.
“Why don’t you head back to the barn and take care of the pups. I got this.” Tyler’s voice is decidedly sof
ter while addressing him.
Reed rushes to the red building as if he can’t get away fast enough, calling to the dogs to follow. All trot after him except for the curly-tailed Laika, who seems more interested in us.
Tyler sighs heavily. “Let me guess, Harry Hatchett’s the one who brought her in and told you she was mine.”
“Does it matter?” I ask.
Piercing hazel eyes shift to study me. “One of my main competitors for a race with a half-million-dollar purse is trying to paint me an animal abuser so I get disqualified.” A sardonic smile twists his lips. “Yeah, I’d say that matters, wouldn’t you?”
“No one does the Iditarod for the money.” And no one person gets that whole amount. Unless you slide in with a first-place finish—which most don’t expect to have a chance at—you’re losing money the second you sign up.
“Harry seems like the type to have money on his mind,” he counters.
“Maybe he does,” I acknowledge. He has bills to pay and an assumed reputation to bolster with trophies. Being rid of Tyler would even the odds for him. “It doesn’t matter. What I care about is that dog in the back of our truck, and I’ve treated enough animals to know neglect when I see it.” It feels like a knife wound to my chest every time.
“You automatically assumed I did that to her. You look around at this place, at my other dogs”—he gestures at his dog, with its lush fur coat and solid frame—“and you can’t think of another reasonable explanation?”
“Do you have one for us?” Howie prompts.
Tyler peers off into the distance, as if weighing what he wants to admit. His hair is mussed from the balaclava, standing on end in every direction. “You’re right. She has been neglected, by whomever owned her before I found her wandering in the woods.”