Max turned back to the track.
The sun was cresting the eastern plain as the dog rounded the bottom edge of a large hill. Birds chirped and whistled and cawed as dark gave way to light. The temperature grew warmer as the sun steadily marched above the horizon. Max arced in big looping swaths, honing in on his prey’s scent, knowing that he was getting closer but stymied by the tricky raccoon’s twisting, winding path that switched from rocks, to trees, to bushes, to streams.
The raccoon was amply proving that it was an old hand in the art of retreat and escape and had used all its wiles to evade any possible pursuer. It constantly changed terrain and kept continuously on the move, tricks that in the past had always overcome its foe’s superior speed and strength.
Other predators would have given up, but there was no quit in Max.
The game continued on for another three hours. Max lapped water from the trickling brooks and small pools left from recent rains.
The sun was high in the sky now, burning a hole through the mile high atmosphere to beat down hard on the thick coat of Max’s fur. Its light blondish red color helped a little, as did the long lean musculature of his frame. But tracking was hard work and he was feeling the heat. Like all canines, he preferred to hunt at night.
The trail had started to the west, moved north, traversed hills and valleys, crossed boulders and scrub, turned back to the east and then south and finally back to the west, until Max was nearly back where he had started, the house less than a thousand yards to the east and perhaps a hundred yards higher in elevation.
The raccoon ambled out from a scramble of bushes fifteen yards upwind from Max. He walked on his back legs, like a hunchbacked old man shuffling slowly along his way. The bright orange tennis ball was clutched tightly against his chest between two hairy little paws.
It turned, examining its back trail and stopped still when it saw Max. The raccoon slowly moved its eyes down to the ball, hunched over it protectively, then looked to a stand of trees a few hundred feet to the south, measuring the odds of escape.
Max blurred into motion, striking with such speed and power the smaller animal had no chance. The blunt trauma of the impact stunned the creature into a coma-like state of shock. Max stood with it hanging limply between his jaws, as he spotted the car driving up toward the house.
Max could snap the raccoon’s neck with barely a thought, the thick muscles of his jaws capable of rendering the spinal column a pulpy mass of splintered shards.
The raccoon, now fully awake, swiveled its eyes to the dog’s, sensing its fate. It looked back at the ball in its tight little fists, weighing the worth of the stolen prize against that of its own life. It looked back at Max and then the big, round eyes lowered and it released its grip. The bright orange tennis ball dropped to the dirt, bouncing twice before coming to rest beside a small tangle of scrub brush.
Submission. Complete and final.
To kill now would be simple, but in the canine world submission was sometimes enough. He tossed the raccoon aside. It hit the dirt and scrub-grass on its shoulder, rolled once, scrabbled to its feet and stood for a second looking at the big dog and the orange round prize that had been so rudely stolen. He gave a final huff, casting his eyes downward and hobbled away like an old bum mourning a broken bottle.
Max had already dismissed the raccoon, his attention on the human coming toward him in the car.
The Alpha. Leader of the pack. The man that had killed the bear and rescued Max from those who captured him. The human who deprived Max of his revenge against the Great Gray Wolf.
Rage burned in his heart.
Ancient imprinting stamped in the genetic DNA of his bloodlines required Max to accept the human as Alpha — for now. But those same genetic drives also pushed him to take control of the pack and could not be ignored forever. Max would be Alpha. His drives, his character traits, his very heritage demanded it.
6
Gil
My house rides the top of a hogback that overlooks C-470 to the east. It affords a spectacular view of Denver and its suburbs. To the west climb the real mountains. Majestic peaks that stab at the sky proudly. I own the entire hogback. I got it for a great price from a gazillionaire client I helped a few years ago. He decided to move out of state, too many bad memories here, and sold it to me way below value. I set up a shooting range on the west side of the slope and an obstacle course thirty yards to the north, complete with a climbing wall and repelling tower. They help keep me in shape. The house itself isn’t that big, 1500 square feet, but Marty, he’s the one who built and sold me the place, attached an enormous garage for his R.V., with about twice the space of the house and a fifteen foot ceiling. I turned a good chunk of the garage into a weight room and added a sauna and steam bath.
It’s a nice place to retreat and rest. The only hard part is getting to the house. The driveway starts at the bottom of the mountain and shoots up at a steep incline. That’s the easy part. It gets steeper from there — and curvy — very curvy. With vertical drop-offs the whole way. I’m not afraid of heights, but some of those drop-offs are ridiculous and the driveway is narrow, like one car-width narrow. Thank goodness Marty had it asphalted. How he made it up and down the road in that giant RV of his is beyond me. I get scared driving it in heavy rain, let alone in the snow or ice. Still, the privacy makes it worthwhile. My only neighbor is across the street at the bottom of the hill. You can’t even see his house until you’re almost to the mailbox.
I pulled up outside the garage and shut off the Escalade. It was quiet — spooky quiet. No birds or squirrels or crickets.
Had to be Max.
I couldn’t see him. He’s sneaky that way.
I got out of the car and called for Pilgrim. He popped out from the garage’s doggy door and waited in the sit position, tongue lolling, ears perked, eyes sparkling, barely able to contain himself. His tug-of-war play rope dangled from his jaws.
Pilgrim is thirteen, a German Shepherd from the old Czech Republic.
“Pilgrim, fooss,” I said, using the German command for heel.
He ran straight at me, threw on the brakes as his nose touched my left thigh, jump spun his hips around and came to rest in a perfect heel position beside my left leg. He looked up at me, eyes aglow.
“That’s my boy,” I said in a happy, silly voice. I turned into him and ruffled his big ears. Pilgrim jumped up, his front paws resting on my shoulders, and licked my face. I scrunched his jowls and wrestled playfully with him for a few minutes, grabbing his pull-toy and dragging him around in the dirt in a close game of tug-of-war. Pilgrim growled — a low rumble that sounded like a cross between a T-Rex and the Werewolf’s ugly brother. I let him win in the end, congratulating him with that high-pitched girly voice that dogs respond to so well.
Pilgrim went over to the shade and lay down to chew on the rope.
I felt the hairs hackle on the back of my neck and a chill tickled up and down my spine.
“Hi, Max,” I said. I still didn’t see him, but I knew. I turned and there he stood, twenty feet away — staring. A few drops of blood stained the coat of his chest and the sides of his muzzle.
“Who’d you kill this time?” I asked. He didn’t answer — just continued to stare — like I said — spooky.
He’s only two, but he’s an old two. I got him when he was about fourteen months old. At that age, you can’t always tell if the traits and drives you think you’re seeing are the real thing or just puppy enthusiasm that will fade with age, but I’d taken the chance because the first time I got a really good look at him, his teeth were sunk gum-deep into the neck of a bear. Also, I liked the look in his eyes. The chance paid off (even though I had to shoot a couple of guys to get him).
Max isn’t Lassie or Rin-Tin-Tin; what he is is a loaded weapon, cocked and ready to fire with a hair trigger. He is the best working dog I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen plenty. Max, however, isn’t so thrilled with me.
Or anyone else.
He cast a last look in my direction then lifted his back leg and started licking himself.
About the best welcome I could expect from him.
I shrugged my shoulders and went into the house. I poured some food into Pilgrim’s bowl, dumped out the old water and refilled that bowl as well. Max’s bowls were untouched, as always. He hunts his own food and finds his own water. I’ve tried to break him of it, but he just gets grumpy.
I checked my house phone for messages (I know what you’re thinking — who has a land line these days? But hey, I’m old fashioned and I need it for work), saw there were none, and called my friend at VISA. She told me there had been no transactions on Shane Franklin’s Master Card in the last seven days. I thanked her for checking and called my secretary. Yolanda had contacted all the local hospitals and police stations with no luck. I asked her to spread the search to the rest of Colorado. If Shane had run away he might well be out of the state by now, but expanding beyond Colorado’s borders was pretty much useless without at least a possible destination.
My cell phone vibrated in my pocket. It was Lisa Franklin. I looked at my watch; it was only twelve-twenty. I wasn’t scheduled to be at her house until two.
She sounded frantic. “I just got home, someone’s been here. Can you come, please? I’m scared.”
I told her I’d be there in twenty minutes and hung up. I went outside and called for Max.
It was time to work.
7
Max
The Alpha gave a command in the native language of the land of Max’s birth. Max’s dog brain didn’t understand German any more than it did English, but it did recognize the pattern of the syllables and the intonations that controlled the flow of the sound of the words.
The conflict always present when close to Gil burned within him. His genetic drive to rule the pack and subordinate to no one versed the knowledge that Gil bested those who bested him, making the human Alpha. Dogs are pack animals and in the pecking order of the pack the alpha dog rules. The only way to wrest control from the pack leader is through combat.
So Max followed by Gil’s side, the desire to attack and assume leadership smoldering within, urging him to strike, but a certain fear kept him at bay, a type of supernatural awe at the human’s ability to outguess him. Max could not actually think in such complex terms, but the gist of this knowledge sparked a nugget of doubt in the otherwise undaunted confidence in his powers and abilities and kept him from attacking.
Even so his internal makeup could not be completely denied. Twice, in the last week, the genetic impulse to rise through the ranks of the pack had surged through his blood and prepared him to strike. But both times the human moved out of position at exactly the right time costing Max the opportunity for a clear shot. It was frustrating and added to his trepidation of the Alpha.
Gil opened the back door of the Escalade and Max jumped up onto the seat. The instinctual thought of spinning and sinking his teeth into Gil’s throat flashed through his mind. But the instant his tail cleared the doorframe, the Alpha slammed the door closed. Gil sat in the front seat and started the car, his back to the dog. Max could have attacked; instead he slumped to the seat, confused at how another creature could guess his intent when he barely knew it himself.
The thrum and vibration of the car worked in unison to lull Max into a peaceful semi-doze. In the wild, when he was being hunted by farmers for killing their chickens and lambs, he ran when he had to and rested when he could, knowing instinctively there might not be time later.
Max and Pilgrim were very different creatures. Pilgrim would play and run and jump just for the fun of it. Max conserved his energy for more important things.
Survival — the hunt — the kill.
Reaching his destination, Gil stopped the car, leaving it running so the air conditioner could keep the car cool for Max.
Gil got out, closing the door behind him, leaving Max alone. Max sat up, gave the area a quick scan looking for possible danger, noting the best places to hide and from where to attack.
Max watched as the Alpha walked away from the car and crossed the street. He saw no immediate threat to the Alpha. The internal conflict continued. If there were danger to the Alpha, he would spring to his defense, fighting to the death if need be. The rule of the pack was to protect the leader, a genetic drive that could not be ignored nor refused. Max might attack Gil himself, to wrest control of the pack, but he would not allow another, outside of the pack, to do so.
Gil walked to the Franklin’s house and disappeared inside. Max lay down and slipped back into a light sleep. If the Alpha needed him, he would follow the dictates of his drives and respond, but for now there was no reason to waste his strength.
8
Gil
I’ve seen my share of typical burglaries… this was not one of them. Most times, when someone breaks into a house, it works in one of two ways. Either they know exactly what they’re going for, say electronics or jewelry or cash, or they’re just vandals bent on utter destruction.
What I saw at the Franklin house was different. It was a professional job, perhaps the most thorough I’d ever seen. Every drawer, cushion, closet, and room, along with pictures and mirrors and every possible hiding place, had been checked. The pillows were cut, the dishes, glasses, silverware, all shattered and lying helter-skelter on the floors and counters. The refrigerator and freezer were emptied, every jar and carton and container, opened and dumped on the kitchen floor. The couches were slashed, the entertainment center overturned. Every lamp smashed, the plants uprooted, vases broken, dirt scattered. The carnage was complete, and yet it had a certain symmetric design that, to a trained eye, said nothing had been done with malice, but rather with the goal of finding something — one thing — in particular.
I’d gone through the house twice already. In Lisa and Tom’s bedroom I found a picture album. The binder had been split and ripped open, but the pictures inside were untouched. I flipped through scores of family scenes: the Grand Canyon, Mt. Rushmore, the Alamo. I saw a picture of a smiling Shane on the steps of the Stanley Hotel in Estes Park with baby Amber on his lap sucking her thumb (some things never change). Shane was holding a copy of Stephen King’s book Doctor Sleep, the sequel to The Shining, in one hand, his other hand curled protectively around his sister’s side. Turning the page, I saw Shane as a boy of three playing in a swimming pool. The water looked blue and inviting, his light hair dripping. I wondered if back then his parents ever thought a day might come when their smiling little boy would cause them so much trouble. Better times. At the bottom of the page was a shot of Shane, Marshal, and Joseph playing in the backyard together. It was close to dusk, the sky blazing with reds and yellows and the sun’s rays breaking through the clouds in bright shafts. It hurt my heart.
Lisa was sitting on what was left of a kitchen chair, quietly sobbing into her hands while Amber sat in her lap playing with a doll.
The back door had been kicked in; one blow delivered expertly to the sweet spot next to the deadbolt. The impact splintered the doorframe, sending shards to the far side of the room.
“And you have no idea what they were looking for?” I asked.
She shook her head. “We had two computers, one for Tom and me, and the other for the two older boys. They’re both gone. Nothing else seems to be missing. It’s all just… destroyed.” She looked up with searching eyes. “Do you think this has something to do with Shane?”
It was a nice house in a quiet, upper-middle class neighborhood settled on the outskirts of Lakewood. Not an area vandals were likely to randomly strike.
I could see an old, seventeen-inch monitor on a small desk pushed up against a wall in the family room.
I avoided her question by asking, “Were the computers new or old?”
Lisa sniffled and blew into a tissue. Amber reached up and pulled a tiny section off and pretended to wipe her own nose. “I don’t know. I think we got them about five years ago. Why?”
“Well, ther
e’s not a lot of demand for ancient computers on the black market these days, which means they weren’t after the hardware.”
“What then?”
“Something that was on the computers.”
Lisa looked bewildered. “But we just used them for school, and some games.”
“Do you let the kids use the Internet access?”
“Yes, of course.”
That opened a whole new can of worms. With Internet access Shane could have been involved in a slew of things: fraud, gambling, porn, all of them bad. Not something I relished telling, or even bringing up, to a nice middle class mom like Lisa.
“You said Shane has a credit card?”
“Two. The Visa, and a gas card. But he doesn’t have a lot of money.”
“Do you keep track of his accounts?”
She dabbed at her eyes. “No. I taught him how to balance his statements when we gave him the cards. He picked it up right away and he’s done it on his own since then.”
“Does he owe anyone money?”
She shook her head.
“Does he have a job?”
“Not full time, but he makes money mowing lawns in the summer and shoveling driveways in the winter. He takes some college classes at D.U. and does a little work for them, but that’s about it.”
I looked around the room. “You need to call the police, make a burglary report.”
She wiped tears from her cheeks and pulled a cell phone from her purse.
While she made the call, I sorted through the wreckage. Lisa said she helped her kids with schoolwork and there were plenty of educational books to prove it. The covers of the hard backs had been split and stripped.
Sheepdogs: Keeping the Wolves at Bay Page 3