Sheepdogs: Keeping the Wolves at Bay

by Gordon Carroll

  Five days, that’s nothing for a seventeen year old. Back when I worked a uniform on the streets, kids ran away all the time. We wouldn’t even take a report till they were gone at least seventy-two hours. These days, what with kids having their own rides and bank accounts and phones and internet access letting them hook up with people all over the country, five days is like spending the night at a buddy’s house.

  “That’s not very long, Lisa.”

  “Not for some people,” she said, still looking at Amber. “But my kids are different.” Now she did look up and I saw a shine of pride in her eyes, a strength that hadn’t been there a minute ago. “I have five children, Mr. Mason. I am very active in their lives. I’m on the PTA, I’m a den mother for both my sons’ and my daughters’ scout troops. I volunteer for every school function and chaperone every dance. My kids attend church regularly. They’re good kids, with good values. My son did not run away.”

  I could have told her how many hundreds of times I’d heard the same arguments from parents who swore up and down that their baby would never run away and hurt them like this and how ninety-nine times out of that hundred the kid would turn up an hour later, sheepish grin on his or her face and that would be that. But I didn’t. It wouldn’t have done any good. I let loose with a better argument.

  “I charge a five thousand dollar retainer, up front. Five more when I find your son. There’s no day charge or expense fee. It’s ten thou if it takes ten minutes or ten years. Once I start a case I never quit until it’s done, even if you fire me.”

  I saw the shock hit her like a hard slap. I thought that would do it.

  “Tammy… she said you’d be… expensive. But I had no idea…”

  I nodded wisely, feeling like Theodore Cleaver’s father telling the Beav why it was wrong to cheat on a test. “Your best bet is to go home, make a police report and…”

  “I made a police report. My husband didn’t want me to, but I did anyway. The officer was nice, but I could tell he was being that way because he thought Shane was just another runaway.”

  “Odds are he’s right.”

  She looked me in the eye and I saw that same strength of resolution. “My son did not run away.”

  I took a sip of coffee, giving her the chance to break eye contact; long stares can be embarrassing. She didn’t budge. “Why didn’t your husband want you to call the police?”

  That did it. She looked away, out the window at the small stream of people enjoying the spring sunshine. She gave the ring another turn. “Tom, my husband, and Shane have been arguing lately.”

  The final nail in the coffin. Sons and dads, the sons trying to spread their wings, getting ready to fly the nest, the dads trying to maintain control so their boys didn’t go splat on the asphalt.

  “Lisa,” I said, adopting the Hugh Beaumont tone again, “here in Colorado, seventeen year old boys don’t get abducted. It just doesn’t happen. Girls, yes, sometimes, and even that is rare, but boys?” I shook my head.

  She looked down at Amber, moving her ring back and forth. “Then you won’t take the case?”

  “Oh I’ll take it. I don’t tell people how to spend their money. And I’ll find your son. But you’d probably find him yourself in about three days when he comes moping home a couple of pounds lighter, with his tail between his legs. Only that way you wouldn’t have to tell your husband how you blew the college fund looking for a son that just turned up a-ok.”

  She snapped open a small, beige purse and reached inside. “I can write you a check for the five thousand. The rest might take a while to get together.”

  I held up a hand. “Before you do that, let me ask you this. Was Shane into drugs?”

  Her mouth dropped open and she looked at me sharply. “No, of course not.”

  “Alcohol?”

  “No.”

  “Gambling?”

  She shook her head.

  “Then why are you so sure something is wrong?”

  Her hand was still inside the purse. She looked toward the ceiling or maybe heaven as though she might find the right words written out for her. Finally she looked back at me. “I feel it in my bones. Call it mother’s intuition or whatever you like, but I know something terrible has happened to my baby. I know it.”

  I drew back my hand, took a sip of coffee. “Write the check.”

  4

  Lisa Franklin gave me a picture of Shane. On the back she’d written out his vitals; height, weight, clothes, right down to his SSN. She’d also included his Visa account information and his Colorado Driver’s License number. He was a good looking kid, thin like his mother, with bushy blond hair, long eyelashes, light blue eyes and dimples that would make young girls swoon.

  I sent Lisa and her sleeping daughter (still sucking her thumb) home, telling her I would be at her house around two o’clock to look over Shane’s room.

  Leaving the coffee shop, I walked the three blocks to my office. I’m on the second floor at 20th and Blake Street, across from Coor’s Field. Nothing better than hearing the sound of wood smacking leather and the accompanying cheer from the crowd (except maybe for being there with a chili dog piled high with mustard, ketchup and onions).

  The buildings in this area used to be warehouses, but were converted into restaurants, lofts, and office space during the big urban renewal push coinciding with the construction of the baseball stadium. The office is a little bigger than I need, what with it just being me, my secretary Yolanda Jimenez, and my K9s. I used to have a partner, Sam Ponsiago. He was murdered.

  Two buildings over is a Greek restaurant named Dimitri’s. The downstairs is fancy but upstairs you can get take out at the register and there are a few tables for casuals who want to sit. The smell of garlic and fresh dough sent my stomach to rumbling. I went to the counter where a nicely dressed woman, about my age, asked me what I’d like.

  “A gyro with onions and a Diet Cherry Dr Pepper.”

  She rang it up. She had pretty blond hair and a cute smile. I’d seen her here a few times but didn’t know her name. She didn’t wear a name tag. “Are you the guy that works up the street — the private detective?”

  I smiled. “Gil Mason. Sherlock Holmes incognito.”

  She put a finger to her cheek. “Sherlock, huh? Where’s Dr. Watson?”

  “In school of course,” I said.

  “School?”

  I grinned. “Elementary.”

  She laughed. It was easy and natural. “So what’s it like being a private eye? Is it as exciting as being a real cop?”

  I held a hand over my heart showing the pain. “A real cop? That hurts. What makes you think we aren’t real? I have a badge and everything.”

  “A badge, huh? Do you have handcuffs…a gun?”

  “Everything,” I said, wagging my eyebrows, preening my suave essence of masculinity, although it probably looked more like Groucho cracking a risqué joke.

  “Can you arrest people?”

  “Of course. I do it all the time, and I don’t even have to read the bad guys their rights.”

  She looked at me, hands on her hips, lips pursed, eyes narrowed. “It’s boring, isn’t it?”

  I sighed. “Like the Maytag repairman.”

  She laughed that sweet, musical laugh again. “Poor baby.”

  I shook my head sadly. “Not everyone is cut out for the exciting life of the real men in blue.”

  “So no car chases or getting shot at or stabbed?”

  I shook my head. “None of the fun stuff.”

  My order came up and she put a napkin and salt and pepper into the bag. “Still, I bet the pay is better.”

  “Oh yeah,” I said, doing my best Will Smith. “Of course. Way better. Sheesh. No contest.”

  “That bad, huh?”

  “Barely enough to buy a gyro sandwich and a soda.”

  “Well, there better be enough for a starving waitress’s tip.”

  I bowed. “Always.”

  “You look kind of tired, thou
gh,” she said.

  That one really did hurt. I’d awoken dreaming of my wife and daughter again last night and couldn’t get back to sleep. It was becoming a regular occurrence. Guilt has an evil way of messing with one’s subconscious. The sheriff’s office’s shrink I’d seen after their deaths told me my rage was fueled by guilt over not being able to save them. He was probably right; didn’t help much though.

  I said, “I didn’t sleep well.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” she said. She gave a slight curtsy, handing me my order. “A gyro for a hero.”

  I laughed.

  “Drink some warm milk with a little vanilla before you go to bed. It’ll put you right out. My grandmother gave me that one; it works every time.”

  I thanked her, slipped a five into the tip jar, gave her a last Groucho eyebrow-wag and walked to a table by a big window that looked out on the street. Outside, I watched people walk by. The sun was just high enough to erase the shadow from the street and the temperature was hovering around eighty. Two young men dressed in suits and ties, one of them holding a styro cup with a straw, talked excitedly. A lone woman dressed smartly and sporting a short, saucy hairdo walked the other way. Both men continued past her without breaking stride or their conversation until she was behind them, then both turned and looked admiringly before continuing on as though beauty had never interrupted them. The male mind on autopilot. Another man, this one somewhere in his late twenties, strolled along wearing a baseball shirt and shorts. His legs were snow white, still in the courting stages with the new spring sun, and his black socks and brown loafers seemed badly out of place. Two Hispanic boys and an African American girl of about twelve were kicking a soccer ball back and forth as they walked along the street. They were pretty good.

  This was downtown, the mean streets of Denver. Scary.

  I took a bite of the sandwich, a tender lamb-beef combination exploding with mideastern spices. The pita was fresh-baked, the pop ice-cold. Heaven.

  When I finished the gyro I called my secretary and had her start checking the local hospitals and law enforcement agencies for Mrs. Franklin’s wayward son. Then I called a friend of mine who works high up at Master Charge and asked her to run a check on any recent transactions on Shane Franklin’s Squeeze-ya card. She reminded me that she doesn’t work for Visa and I told her I knew that but that I didn’t have any friends at Visa. She said she was sorry, but that she couldn’t help. I didn’t give up. I have a way with women. She finally told me to stop begging and she’d see what she could do.

  I smiled, finished my soda, tossed the trash and waved goodbye to the blond with the musical laugh. I’d planned on going to my office, but now that I’d eaten, started the records and hospital checks, and still had plenty of time before I was due at the Franklin’s I decided to head home and give the dogs some time out.

  I have two dogs, a thirteen year old German Shepherd who acts like a puppy, and a two year old Belgian Malinois who acts like a grumpy old fart. Pilgrim’s the Shepherd, the Mal is Max. Pilgrim was my last K9 partner back when I worked the streets. He’s a hundred and twenty pounds of fun loving fur, and in his day was the best partner a man could ask for.

  Max though… Max is different.

  5

  Max

  In the distance the dog watched as the car made its way up the thin winding road. The dog’s name was Max and he was a miracle of nature. His body was about the size of an average German Shepherd, smaller than the Alaskan Gray Wolf, but large for his breed, the Belgian Malinois, with a graceful build, lighter bone construction, sleek, short fur — blondish, with black, upright ears. His muscle structure, lean and powerful — the perfect combination of speed and strength. But it was more than his physical prowess alone that made him a miracle of nature. Max’s reflexes were lightning fast, his agility incredible, his drives and character traits all finely honed toward one thing and one thing only — the hunt. Centuries of selective breeding had slapped together the raw materials of flesh, muscle, bone, heart and spirit, arranging them in exactly the right order to create a faultless predator, capable of incredible carnage and destruction. All that was needed was the right training ground, and Max’s past had afforded just that, bringing together all the elements for the perfect storm of genetic and environmental manipulation, resulting in an unstoppable, fearless creature. One with speed, strength, endurance and intelligence that were off the charts.

  The wind changed and Max caught a swirl of scent that was there and gone. His sense of smell was thousands of times stronger than a human’s, and even through the screen of dust, exhaust and obliterated vegetation pulled up in the wake of the vehicle and then battered and tattered before being brought to him in fragments riding the shifting currents of the wind, he could discern the unique scent of the lone occupant.

  It was the Alpha.

  The dog’s heart hardened, his powerful jaws tightening on the throat of the forty pound raccoon held effortlessly in his mouth. The raccoon shuddered, its fear rippling through its body as it gripped tighter the bright orange tennis ball in its black paws. Max ignored the movement and watched the car as it brought the human closer.

  The raccoon had stolen the ball when it was still dark outside. The ball was Pilgrim’s toy, it meant nothing to Max. But the house was now Max’s den, the lair of his pack, and no intruder could be allowed to violate its boundaries, to steal its treasures. Ancient genetic imprinting could not be ignored. To tolerate such an act could mean death for the whole pack.

  Max had been out hunting until very late, the sun just a few hours from rising. He caught the raccoon’s scent inside the garage and followed it through the pet door into the house. Pilgrim was fast asleep and didn’t awake at Max’s entrance. Pilgrim was bigger than Max, with a thicker build, larger head, more powerful jaw muscles. But Max had killed dogs twice the size of the shepherd and had no fear of him. Pilgrim was old — weak — of little use to the pack.

  The raccoon’s small dusty tracks, so much like human hand and footprints, were clearly visible in the dark. Max’s night vision was excellent, ten times that of a human, although the scent was weak here on the tiles of the kitchen floor, a sign that at least a few hours had lapsed since the visit. The animal had crept right up on Pilgrim. If it had been another dog, or a wolf like the Great Gray Wolf that had slain Max’s first pack, Pilgrim would have been helpless. But it had just been a raccoon and so Pilgrim lived.

  Toys littered the immediate area around Pilgrim and his bed. Rubber balls, thick rawhide bones, cow knuckles the size of a man’s fist, a knotted rope that Pilgrim and Gil played tug-of-war with. But one thing was missing.

  The orange tennis ball.

  Max’s head swiveled toward the garage.

  Outside, in the dirt and grass, he picked up the trail and started tracking. It was big for a raccoon, heavy, its claws scraping the dirt and flattening plants. An easy trail for even an average dog to follow.

  And Max was no average dog.

  The raccoon had continued straight for nearly a hundred yards, mostly on two legs but at times dropping to all fours. Four paws were easier to track, more ground disturbance. The track veered to the west, down a steep hill and up another, riding the ridge awhile before dropping down to a small copse of evergreens.

  At the base of the tree line Max lost the scent. He quartered back and forth, like a shark scenting blood in the ocean, his nose brushing the earth as he raced about searching for any trace of the animal or disturbed ground. But there was nothing.

  The raccoon was old and smart and experienced. And a good part of the reason it had lived as long as it had was its diligence in covering its tracks and making its trail difficult to follow.

  Undaunted, Max swooped closer to the trees, dipping beneath their needled limbs to sniff the trunks and low hanging branches, and there, on the fifth tree, he caught the strong odor of sap from fresh slashes in the bark where the raccoon had climbed. Most dogs can’t, or because of fear, don’t, climb trees.
Max was as agile as a cat and could jump a wall eight feet high. He scrabbled up onto a branch — another — another — and another. He was nine feet off the ground and he stretched his nose high — scenting — but there was no raccoon smell. He peered up through the darkness of the spiraling branches, straining to catch the slightest of movements. But there was only the gentle sway of the trees as they danced slowly in the wind. The raccoon had escaped. For now.

  Hopping down, Max circled the grove.

  In the simple, primitive way that Max’s mind worked he knew the raccoon hadn’t vanished; that his trail was here somewhere. And that he would find it. When in full hunt drive, Max was a machine.

  Instinctively all his senses focused into a concentrated cone of awareness, searching out the animal with renewed effort. He began to quarter, weaving in ever widening swaths, his eyes cutting through the blackness of night, his ears straining for the faintest of clues, his nose sorting through thousands of layers of molecular scent floating on and above the cool earth.

  He picked up the trail about thirty yards west, heading north.

  It was fresh.

  The raccoon had climbed over a large group of boulders — crossed a small stream — dug through a hedge of thorny bushes.

  Max sniffed out a scratch on one of the boulders — caught the scent of fresh mud in the stream — took a nick from a thorn that drew blood over his left eye.

  Ignored it.

  A rustle sounded from inside a clump of bushes a few yards down the slope. Max charged forward just as a full grown male badger emerged. The boar was nearly thirty pounds and turned just as Max reached him.

  The dog stopped as the animal hissed and snarled and backed away. The badger meant nothing to him. Max wasn’t hungry and it hadn’t invaded his den. He turned to move around the animal and continue the hunt. But the badger, mistaking the dog’s indifference for fear, pressed its supposed advantage and lunged aggressively.

  Nearly without thought, and hardly more effort, Max evaded the strike with a turning of his head — darted in — caught the badger at the base of the skull — whip-snapped it back and forth once breaking its neck — and dropped the carcass on the grass.