Gun Shy

by Donna Ball

  To someone else, his expression might have been impassive. But I recognized the tight, grim lines that bracketed his mouth when I was finished.

  He said, “I’ll put out an all-points for Sandy Lanier. Don’t worry. If she’s still around here, we’ll find her.”

  He reached past me and laid his hand on Cisco’s chest. He kept it there for a long moment, in quiet affection, and then he straightened up. “Come on. I’ll give you a ride home.”

  I shook my head. “I’m staying. Ethel will bring me a cot or something. I’m not leaving him.”

  He did not seem surprised. “Where’s your car? I’ll have one of the boys bring it by here for you before morning.”

  I told him, and he stood. “I’ll take care of it,” he said, and I knew he would.

  He turned his gaze toward the kennel where Cisco lay, and his expression softened. “Get better, big guy,” he said.

  I watched him go, but I didn’t speak until the door had closed behind him. And then all I said was a very soft, “Good-bye, Buck.”

  I turned to Cisco, entwining my fingers in his fur, and there I stayed until morning, until his wet, licking kisses nudged me to wakefulness.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “We have a lost dog here by the name of Ringo, brown and white, picked up day before yesterday on the Old Forest Service Road. I understand his owner’s name is Sandy. So, Sandy, if you’re listening out there, how about giving us a call at the radio station, or stop by Dog Daze Boarding and Training Center off of County Road 16. Raine Stockton is taking good care of him, but your pup wants to go home.

  “Funeral Services for Ima Lee Tucker will be held tomorrow afternoon at two at Calvary Baptist Church. Visitation tonight from six to eight at Sutter’s Funeral Home. The family requests—”

  I snapped off the radio. The station had been faithful about announcing Ringo’s whereabouts at the top of the hour, every hour. If Sandy had access to a radio, she knew where her dog was. But it was beginning to seem less and less likely that she would do anything about it—either because she couldn’t, or because she didn’t want to.

  And I simply couldn’t believe that I had misjudged her that badly.

  Buck had confirmed that Sandy Lanier had, in fact, been Mickey White’s physical therapist. He had tracked down her vehicle registration and had a lookout for her car, but that was all I knew about the investigation. It was, in fact, all I wanted to know.

  No one had to point out my error in judgment in taking matters into my own hands instead of turning over my information to the authorities. The consequences of my foolishness gazed at me with sweet, forgiving eyes from his plush dog bed in the quiet storeroom that opened off the office. Occasionally he would entertain himself by chewing on a Nylabone or licking the cheese out of a rubber Kong toy. He took lots of naps, and got an abundance of petting and as many treats as the vet would allow. Sonny said—and I had no reason to dispute this—that in Cisco’s opinion, this was the best time of his life.

  In truth, dogs recover from major traumas like illness and surgery with a great deal more aplomb than people do. Some think it’s because they process pain differently, and others believe it’s because dogs don’t worry themselves to death, as people tend to do. All I know is that my biggest struggle was in keeping Cisco quiet and resting, instead of bouncing up and down the stairs and wrestling with the other dogs. It was for that reason that I had installed him in the storage room, safely behind a baby gate, close enough so that he could see me and I could stop by and pet him every few minutes, but out of the center of traffic and, hopefully, away from anything that would excite him.

  “Are you sure you don’t mind doing this?” I asked Maude as she pulled on her coat and her lightweight driving gloves.

  “Not a bit of it. I’ll enjoy the drive, and it’s been ages since I’ve seen Katie. Not since her wedding, in fact.”

  My cousin Kate was flying in that afternoon with plans to stay for a couple of weeks to help out Aunt Mart after Uncle Roe was released from the hospital. Naturally, I couldn’t bear to leave Cisco, even for the few hours it would take to pick Kate up from the Asheville airport and return. But even if it had not been for Cisco, I couldn’t have left the kennel. Wes Richards was coming by in less than an hour to evaluate Hero, and I had to be here.

  “We’ll stop by the hospital first,” Maude said, “and then we’ll go get a bite to eat before I settle her in at home. Are you sure you don’t want to meet us in town?”

  I glanced over my shoulder at Cisco and she smiled. “Never mind. I’ll see you in the morning, then.”

  She opened the door, and then turned back. “Oh, and don’t try to move that kerosene by yourself. I’ll help you load it on the dolly in the morning and get it over to the shed.”

  Every October we ordered a fifty-gallon drum of kerosene to use in the emergency kennel heaters in case of a power outage. And every year the delivery man dropped it off in front of the kennel instead of taking it to the storage shed fifty feet away as we repeatedly asked him to do.

  “Don’t worry,” I said. I reached down to absently stroke Hero’s ear. “As soon as Wes Richards leaves I’m going to clean up some paperwork and call it a day. I feel like I could sleep for about a week.”

  “Probably wouldn’t hurt you a bit,” she said.

  Cisco and Hero seemed to have come to a détènte, probably because, from Cisco’s point of view, there was absolutely no doubt who was Best Dog around here, and it was himself. Cisco seemed to have no problem with Hero keeping me company in the office, nor did he object when Hero shared his space in the storeroom, where a spare crate was set up. After all, it was Cisco who was lying on an orthopedic dog bed with his own personal water dish embossed with silver paw-prints so close that he only had to stretch out his neck to drink from it, surrounded by toys and gourmet munchies. He probably felt he could spare a little pity for the visiting dog.

  I spent some time reviewing Hero’s commands, but it was a halfhearted effort that brought me little pleasure. Hero was a great dog, but Buck had been right when he called me a groupie. I always wanted bigger and better; I always expected more. I had forgotten that I already had a hero, and his name was Cisco.

  Over and over in the past two days I had replayed the details of the incident in my mind, and tried to make it match what Buck had told me. Someone had invaded the cabin that Mickey and Leo White had rented, and had trashed it. It didn’t take much imagination to assume they were looking for something, and that the something they were looking for might have been a bag full of gold coins.

  Then along I come, thrashing through the woods, getting much too close, making far too much noise . . . had the shot been meant for me? Cisco had seen something in the woods that startled him, and he had lunged for it. In doing so, had he saved my life?

  If this were one of those television cop shows that my aunt liked to watch, there would be a manhunt in force right now, roadblocks would be in place, forensic investigators would be working all sorts of miracles, and within twenty-four hours the killer of Mickey White would be behind bars with an unbreakable chain of evidence and the case would be solved. In real life, in a small town in the Smoky Mountains, things are a little messier—and a lot slower. The person who had shot Cisco was still at large. And so was Mickey White’s murderer.

  And there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about either one.

  Wes Richards arrived right on time in a white van with COASTAL ASSISTANCE DOGS stenciled on the doors in red letters. I gently closed the door to the storage room where Cisco was napping, and went out to meet him.

  He was much younger than I had expected. He shook my hand firmly, thanked me profusely for what I had done for Hero and accepted my offer of a cup of coffee. Maude had made the coffee, not I, and the fact that he drank it stoically, without complaint, raised him quite a few notches in my regard.

  We talked for a few minutes about Hero and about dogs in general. I told him that Leo White’s body had been f
ound, and he replied that he had already learned as much from Mickey’s father.

  “So there’s no relative who’s able to take the dog?” I asked.

  “No,” he said. “But that’s not a problem. If Nero is not able to be reassigned, we have a long list of families who would love to adopt a young, highly trained dog like him.”

  I smiled weakly. “I’m sure.” I stood. “I guess you’d like to see him.”

  I must say I was impressed with the way Wes, despite his youth, was transformed once he took Hero’s lead. He became a dog handler: confident, assured, firm but fair, leaving no doubt in Hero’s mind or anyone else’s what he expected from the dog at any given moment. As he worked with Hero, he explained to me a little about the training program, and the reasoning behind each of the sixty-eight basic commands all of their dogs were taught before they were considered suitable for placement as service dogs.

  Hero performed magnificently, of course. He brought Wes’s car keys, which he had dropped in the trash can, to the chair in which Wes was sitting. He put his front paws on my desk and retrieved a memo pad. He went quietly to a corner and lay down when Wes commanded him to do so. I knew all of this was just child’s play for him, and that Wes was letting him practice the easy commands only so that he would feel comfortable.

  Then Wes put him in a down-stay, walked behind him and dropped a stack of heavy books onto the concrete floor. They made a sound like rapid gunfire. Hero whirled around, barking, then charged toward the door with his ears back and his tail down. I caught his collar. “Easy boy,” I said softly. “Calm down.”

  Hero pressed himself against my leg, tail still tucked.

  Wes came over to me, his face impassive, and took Hero’s collar. He calmly returned the dog to the exact same spot where he had broken his down-stay, which I knew perfectly well was the correct procedure, and he repeated the experiment. He repeated it several times, with steadily worsening results. When it became clear that the dog’s distress was nearing critical level, he snapped on the lead, asked Hero to sit, and then praised him gently. He released the dog to follow his instincts, and Hero’s instincts were to hide behind my desk.

  Wes Richards looked at me with deep regret in his eyes. “He was such a great dog,” he said.

  “So that’s it? He’s out of the program?”

  He said, “It can take up to two years to train a service dog, and our waiting list is three years old. As valuable as Nero is to us, his chances of rehabilitation are so slim, and the time factor is so crucial, that I just can’t take trainers away from dogs who have a real chance of success.” He drew a breath and shook his head. “I hate this,” he said.

  Then he picked up Nero’s lead and extended his hand. “I can’t thank you enough for taking care of him. I can tell you went above and beyond the call of duty with him.”

  “You’re not driving back this afternoon, are you?”

  “Actually, I’d planned to stay over and get an early start in the morning.”

  “I’ll keep Hero overnight for you if you like,” I volunteered quickly.

  “Thanks,” he said, smiling. “I hated to ask you to do more than you’ve already done, but I’m frankly not sure what the pet policy of the hotel is where I’m staying, and it would be a big help if I could pick him up in the morning.”

  I walked him to the door. “It’s no trouble at all. As you’ve probably guessed, I’ve grown pretty fond of him.” Then I said thoughtfully, “I know you’ve got a waiting list, but do you ever . . . that is, would you consider adopting Hero to someone who’s not on the list?”

  He looked surprised, but also hopeful. “Do you mean you?”

  I shook my head. “No. I’d love to have him, but I can’t. I was thinking about someone else.”

  “Well, there would be a lot of factors to consider. We’d have to do an interview and a home visit. Could you tell me something about the person you have in mind?”

  “In the morning,” I promised him. “I have to make a phone call, check some things out . . .”

  As soon as he drove away, I hurried back to the desk. “Hero,” I excitedly told the huddled mass of insecurity under my desk, “I don’t know why I didn’t think of this before! It’s the perfect solution for everybody. And the best part is, you don’t have to leave. I can visit you anytime I want.”

  I scooted behind the desk and picked up the phone. But I had dialed only three digits when the door opened on a gust of cold air. I looked up and dropped the phone back into its cradle as Sandy Lanier walked in.

  Chapter Sixteen

  My impression of Sandy had been that she was a pretty woman—even beautiful, with her long blond hair and her flowing gold-and-white top. But she didn’t look pretty now. Her hair was pulled back severely from her face and caught at the nape of her neck, and it looked dull and dry. She wore oversized dark glasses and no makeup, and her lips were chapped and cracked. The sage green hiking parka that she wore was stained and torn at the elbow, and her jeans were baggy and thread-bare.

  She was accompanied by a man in a black leather jacket with zippered pockets, pencil-legged jeans and boots. He had scraggly dark hair that was a little too long and wore aviator sunglasses. He hung back at the door as Sandy came forward.

  I said, in a stunned tone, “Sandy?”

  “Hi,” she replied. Her smile seemed tight, as though it hurt her mouth. “I heard on the radio that you have my dog—that my dog Ringo was found, and that you have him here. Is that right? Is he okay?”

  There was genuine concern in her voice with the last and I hastened to assure her, “Yes, I have him, he’s fine. But we’ve all been worried about you. I thought something had happened—”

  The man stepped forward impatiently. “Can we just get the dog and go?”

  Sandy said, “Raine, this is my boyfriend, Alan. We were camping and Ringo got away from us the other morning. He’s such a silly dog.” Her voice sounded high and artificial. “He never learned to come when I call. He probably shouldn’t even be allowed off leash. It was all my fault. I hope he didn’t cause you too much trouble.”

  I stared at her, remembering the perfectly heeling dog who had never left her side, had never needed a leash even in the midst of throngs of people and children with hot dogs and ice cream cones. Why was she lying? What was wrong with her?

  And in a sudden surge of cold anger I said, “I thought you were hurt. Cisco and I were searching for you, and somebody shot him.”

  I thought I saw her flinch, but it was difficult to tell underneath the big glasses. She wet her pale, cracked lips. “How—awful.”

  The man—Alan, she had called him—said, “We’re in kind of a hurry, so if you could just get the dog—”

  I had been dimly aware of a low rumbling at my feet, but with everything else that was racing through my mind I didn’t recognize the sound for what it was. When the stranger moved toward the desk, however, the throaty growl suddenly erupted into a furious, snarling, barking frenzy as Hero leapt over my desk, toenails scrabbling, teeth bared, and charged.

  Sandy gave a cry of alarm and shrank back, the man swore and raised his arm to guard his face and I instinctively grabbed Hero’s collar, dragging him back. Without a word, I swept the snarling, barking, lunging dog into the storeroom, maneuvered him into a crate, and shot the bolt. Cisco tried to struggle to his feet, excited by all the noise, and I told him sharply, “Down! Stay!”

  Looking disappointed, he obeyed, and I quickly closed the storeroom door behind me.

  “I am so sorry!” I said. My heart was pounding with adrenaline, and my voice was a little breathless. “I don’t know what got into him!”

  “What kind of place are you running here, anyway, lady?” demanded the man angrily. “Goddamn dog almost bit me. I hope your insurance is paid up. You call this a dog school?”

  “I’m sorry. He’s usually so friendly. . . .” Flustered, I bent down to pick up the papers Hero had dislodged from my desk, and that was when I noticed
the man’s boots.

  A snake came, and then she died.

  The boots were snakeskin. From my point of view near the floor, from a dog’s point of view, the diamondback pattern was unmistakable.

  A flash of unwanted certainty hit me and froze me, for a fraction of a second, in place. It was Sandy, after all. Sandy and this snakeskin-wearing man she called her boyfriend who had killed Mickey White and possibly her husband, who had trashed her cabin looking for the coins, who had shot Cisco when we got too close. I felt it in my gut like a punch in the stomach, and then logic reestablished itself.

  It was absurd, ridiculous. There was absolutely no reason to think Sandy was involved at all. Just because she happened to have been the dead woman’s physical therapist meant nothing, less than nothing. There was no evidence that she had even been in town when Mickey White was murdered. Just because she had disappeared right before the cabin was ransacked, just because Cisco had been shot while searching for her . . .

  Watch out for snakes. . . .

  It was impossible. Sandy Lanier was a dog lover. And dog lovers didn’t kill people.

  Well, maybe they did. But they never risked the safety of their dogs in the process.

  I straightened up slowly, clutching a handful of papers, and tried not to stare at the man. My heart couldn’t seem to find its normal rhythm, and my breath came shallowly, too quickly.

  Sandy was saying, “Please, could I just get Ringo? I want to see him.” There was no mistaking the note of desperation in her voice.

  “Sure.” I turned quickly and went behind the desk. “He’s in back. I’ll get him. I would have kept him in the house, but I’ve had a crisis or two myself over the past couple of days. It seemed best to keep him in the kennel.” I was babbling. I hoped no one noticed. “I’m glad you’re okay. I was afraid something had happened.” Obviouslysomething had happened. The only question was what.