Ghost Dog Secrets

by Peg Kehret

  As I debated whether to call Heidi Kellogg, knowing I’d probably get voice mail at this hour, or go home and wake up Mom, knowing she’d be angry that I had come here by myself, the ghost dog began nudging me with her nose.

  “I found him,” I told her. “Thank you. You led me right to him.”

  The collie nudged again and then trotted toward Mean Man’s driveway. She paused and looked back at me, her way of telling me she wanted me to follow her. I shook my head. I’d already found Ra; I had no desire to go closer to the house.

  The ghost dog trotted back to me and pushed her head insistently against my thigh. Then she turned and went back to the driveway. Meanwhile, Ra moaned quietly, clearly uncomfortable. I wondered if he had been hit by a car or if Mr. Myers had hurt him again.

  I could not imagine why the collie wanted me to walk up that driveway. I had confronted Mr. Myers the day he tried to take Ra, and it hadn’t done any good. I sure didn’t want to talk to him again.

  The only reason I could think of for the ghost to want me to approach that house was if Mr. Myers had another dog in there. Perhaps Ra wasn’t the only dog that the ghost wanted me to rescue.

  I knew I couldn’t do that, not by myself. If another animal needed help, I would go through the proper channels this time rather than plunging in on my own. But I couldn’t ask Heidi Kellogg to respond unless I knew for certain that an animal was in danger.

  I ran my hand gently down Ra’s back. He didn’t look able to walk anywhere tonight, even if I could get the padlock off his collar. I’d have to get help and come back for him.

  I looked at the ghost dog, who watched me from the edge of the driveway. Her white fur glowed in the moonlight. Somewhere in the distance, a siren screamed, rising and falling urgently, then fading away. I took a deep breath and followed the collie toward Mean Man’s house.

  The shrubs around the house were denser than I had realized. From the street, they looked like a thick hedge but as the driveway went into that area, I saw that there was more than one row of shrubs, planted close together with their branches intertwined to form a solid barrier. They towered above me, at least ten feet high. One branch snagged my sleeve as I passed, its twiggy fingers hanging on until I pried them loose.

  As soon as the driveway passed the hedge, it curved to the right and I saw the house ahead. A white car blocked the driveway near the house; the old blue car was parked in front of it. I walked around them.

  As I got closer to the house I smelled a strange odor. I wrinkled my nose. It stunk like Mom’s nail polish. Mr. Myers must have rotting garbage back here. A faint light glowed around the perimeters of three windows, and I realized that all the windows had black panes instead of clear glass. It looked as if they had been painted. I wondered why anyone would do that but at least I didn’t have to worry that someone inside would see me approaching.

  Trash covered the front porch on both sides of the door. The ghost dog floated a few inches above the clutter, then turned at the door and looked back at me.

  I didn’t dare turn on my flashlight, but between the small amount of light that seeped from the windows and the almost-full moon, I could see that the litter on the porch wasn’t regular garbage. Blue cylinders the size of coffee urns lay on their sides, surrounded by dozens of empty decongestant boxes and bubble packs. A tangle of narrow hoses coiled in one corner like a nest of snakes.

  I bent my arm and put my nose in my elbow to dull the odor. That’s when it hit me. The smell was ammonia, and the blue cylinders were empty butane containers. The trash on the porch was evidence that Mr. Myers was making methamphetamine in this house! I remembered the man who spoke to our class, the one who told us what to look for if we suspected a meth lab. He had described the smell as being like cat urine or ammonia. He was right.

  I shuddered, recalling what else that speaker had told us: people who use meth often become paranoid and delusional as well as irrationally violent. If Mr. Myers was on meth, he was dangerous not only to animals but to anyone he saw.

  The ghost dog waited expectantly by the door, but I turned and fled back down the driveway. I hurried along the sidewalk until I was off Mean Man’s property. Then I opened Mom’s phone and called 911.

  I gave my name and reported that I’d found what appeared to be a meth lab. I was connected to a police detective, and this time I knew the address. I told him everything I’d seen. “I’m looking at the house now,” I said. “There are people inside.”

  “Thanks for the good information,” the officer said. “We’ll look into it.”

  “Mr. Myers, the man who lives in the house, has my dog locked on a chain in the yard.”

  “I’ll notify Animal Control.”

  “This isn’t a stray dog problem,” I said. “Heidi Kellogg in Animal Control is already investigating Mr. Myers for animal cruelty. He took Ra away from me and now Ra’s locked on a chain and he’s been hurt. He needs to go to the vet.”

  “What’s your phone number?” the officer asked.

  I gave him Mom’s cell number.

  “I’ll investigate,” he said.

  “Please hurry.”

  Next I called Heidi Kellogg. She had said she sometimes worked late at night, but I got her voice mail. I left a message: “This is Rusty Larson. Mr. Myers has Ra locked on a chain in his yard. Ra’s been hurt. I called the police because I think Mr. Myers has a meth lab in his house.”

  As I closed the phone, I saw that the ghost dog was now lying next to Ra, as if to comfort him.

  I knew I should hurry back home, but I was reluctant to leave without Ra. I wished I could call Andrew without waking his parents. His dad might have a tool that would cut through the lock on Ra’s collar. I wondered if Mom was still asleep. I didn’t want to call and wake her up, but I also didn’t want her in a panic, wondering where I was.

  A thought teased the edges of my mind like the tide gradually coming in, each wave moving closer than the last. I felt as if I were overlooking something, some action that I ought to take. It was cold out, and I shoved my hands in the pockets of my jacket. As soon as my hand hit the camera, I knew what it was that I should do but hadn’t. I needed to take a picture of the items on Mr. Myers’s porch.

  Although the porch was a mess, it wouldn’t take long to put all the trash in bags and haul it off. If that happened, the police could arrive and there’d be no sign of a meth lab except the lingering smell.

  The last thing I wanted to do was go back up that driveway, but I did it anyway. One thing I had learned so far in this whole investigation was that the police needed solid proof, not just accusations.

  I walked quickly, noting that there were still lights on behind the blackened windows. When I reached the house, I held the camera up and looked through the viewfinder. I couldn’t see much but I aimed it at the porch and hit the button. As the flash went off, the front door opened.

  I whirled and ran.

  “Who’s there?” I recognized Mean Man Myers’s voice.

  Yard lights came on behind me.

  “It’s a kid!” said a second man.

  “Get him!”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Footsteps thundered behind me.

  My shadow ran ahead of me, long and black.

  “Stop right there!” yelled Mr. Myers.

  I raced on. Until I was past the shrubs, I had no choice but to run straight ahead down the driveway. If I veered to either side, I’d be trapped in Mean Man’s yard.

  “Stop or I’ll shoot!”

  Did he really have a gun or was he trying to scare me into stopping? If he had a weapon, I thought, he would use it. Mean Man Myers was the type to shoot first and talk later.

  I kept running. My throat felt dry and my temples throbbed. Nervous sweat soaked my T-shirt.

  I was almost to the bushes. If I could make it past them, I would turn so that even if Mr. Myers did have a gun, he wouldn’t have a straight shot at me. Just a few more yards . . . a few more feet.

 
I passed the shrubs, but I could tell the men were gaining on me. I should have taken the time to put on my sneakers. Flip-flops were not meant for racing. I cut across the yard toward where Ra lay, heading for the closest neighbor. “Help!” I shouted. “Help me!!”

  When I was almost to the tree where Ra was chained, Mr. Myers yelled, “You’re done for, boy!” Shocked by how close his voice was, I reached in my pocket for the phone. Before I could open it, his hand clutched the back of my shirt.

  I wrenched away from Mean Man’s grasp, stumbled, and fell to my knees. As Mr. Myers reached for me, Ra struggled to his feet, launched himself at Mean Man Myers, and sank his teeth into Mean Man’s leg. Mean Man sprawled in the dirt, howling. The second man tripped over Ra’s chain and went down, too.

  Two sets of headlights came down the street. I ran toward them, waving my arms. “HELP!” I shouted.

  The cars stopped. Two police officers jumped out and ran toward me.

  “They were chasing me,” I said, pointing at the men. “They said if I didn’t stop, they’d shoot me.”

  Mr. Myers still lay in the dirt, but the second man was running toward his car. One officer got back in his squad car and drove into the driveway, preventing the man’s car from leaving.

  The other officer approached Mr. Myers.

  “Shoot that dog!” Mr. Myers yelled. “He attacked me. He’s vicious!”

  “No!” I said. “He’s my pet. He only bit because I was in danger. He was protecting me. He saved my life!”

  “Get in the backseat of my car,” the officer told me, “and stay there.”

  I did, but I left the door open so I could hear.

  Ra had let go of Mean Man’s leg and was lying down again, his head on his paws.

  “The kid was trespassing,” Mr. Myers said. “He was sneaking around my place taking pictures.” He groaned and grabbed his leg. “You need to take him in, lock him up in juvie.”

  The officer examined Mr. Myers’s leg. Soon an ambulance arrived and Mr. Myers was loaded into it. Meanwhile, the second squad car drove out of the driveway with the man who had chased me in the backseat.

  As I watched all of this, I began to tremble. The relief I felt was so enormous that I couldn’t stop. I sat there, shaking as hard as Ra had the day we almost gave him back to Mean Man Myers.

  When the ambulance left, the officer who had examined Mean Man returned to the squad car. “Are you Rusty Larson?” he asked.

  I nodded. “I didn’t think you’d come so soon. I thought you would have to get a search warrant.”

  “Before we can get a search warrant, we need evidence that one is justified. When I checked police records, I learned that this house is occupied by a convicted felon, and I got concerned about you being here with your dog. That’s why two of us responded.”

  “Ra is my dog,” I said. “Mr. Myers has him locked on that chain so I can’t take him home.”

  The officer said, “I’ll have to notify animal control about the dog. He did bite a person.”

  “Heidi Kellogg from animal control knows all about Ra,” I said. “She’s been pursuing cruelty charges against Mr. Myers but the judge only gave him a warning. She knows Ra’s had all his shots and that he’s a friendly dog.”

  I started to cry. I couldn’t help it. “Please,” I said. “Please get Ra unlocked and let me take him home. I think he’s hurt bad; he should go to a vet.”

  “I need to talk to your parents,” the officer said.

  Sooner or later I was going to have to tell Mom what had happened. I might as well get it over with.

  I took out Mom’s phone and called home. I could tell by the way Mom said, “Hello? ” that she had been asleep, which was probably a good thing. By hearing my voice, she knew I was okay before she realized I wasn’t home.

  “Hi, Mom,” I said.

  “Rusty! Where are you?”

  “I’m at Mr. Myers’s house and—”

  “What? What are you doing there? Are you okay?” She no longer sounded sleepy.

  “It’s a long story but I’ll have to explain later. Right now, a police officer wants to talk to you.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  While we waited for Mom to arrive, the officer made a call. Then he told me, “The other officer saw evidence of a meth lab when he followed the second suspect to his car. That suspect’s being booked now. We’ll get a search warrant and go inside the house.”

  When Mom got there, she told the detective everything that had happened with Ra. He used a bolt cutter to get the padlock off Ra’s collar. He carefully removed the choke collar and the chain and helped us lift Ra into our car. Ra whimpered when we moved him but he didn’t struggle. I think he knew we were trying to help him.

  Mom and I took Ra to a twenty-four-hour emergency veterinary clinic where he was examined and had another X-ray. The vet told us it looked as if Ra had recently been hit by a car. I wondered if Mean Man had found Ra on the side of the road or if his own car had done the damage.

  Ra’s rear leg was broken—the same leg that had been broken once before and never set. He had other injuries, too, including two cracked ribs. “I’m amazed that he could defend you,” the vet told me. “It would cause him great pain to move that way. He must love you very much.”

  I fought back tears. “I love him, too,” I said.

  Mom turned pale when she learned what it would cost to treat Ra’s injuries, but she agreed to do it, including twenty-five extra dollars for a shot of painkiller.

  “Please give him that right away,” she said.

  Surgery on Ra’s leg was scheduled for the next morning.

  As we drove home, Mom said, “What on earth were you thinking, Rusty? Whatever possessed you to go over there alone in the middle of the night?”

  “If I tell you, you won’t believe me.”

  “Try me,” she said.

  “I followed a ghost,” I said. “A dog ghost.”

  “Oh, Rusty. This is no time for foolish stories. You’re already in big trouble, young man, and you’ll only make it worse if you don’t tell me the truth.”

  “See?” I said. “I knew you wouldn’t believe me.”

  There were a few seconds of silence. Then Mom said, “A dog ghost?”

  “It’s the ghost of a collie,” I said. “She looks like an ordinary collie except she’s all white and I can see through her.”

  She gave me a sideways glance. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.” I told her everything—how the ghost dog came to my room, how she seemed to be trying to help Ra. I told her how the collie had tried to prevent us from driving Ra to Mean Man’s house that day, and how I had taken two photos of the ghost.

  “Did Andrew see this ghost?” Mom asked.

  “No, but Ra can see it. They sniff noses.”

  Mom sighed. “I’m glad you didn’t say anything about this to the police,” she said. “The tabloid papers would never leave us alone.”

  “It seemed better to say I had been out looking for Ra.”

  It was after three when I finally laid my head on my pillow and closed my eyes. I wanted to skip school and sleep in the next morning, but Mom wouldn’t let me.

  “Studies show that sleep deprived children do poorly in school,” I said.

  “Other studies show that kids who sneak out at night should lose their computer privileges.”

  While we ate breakfast, Mom listened to the morning news on the radio. One story reported the arrest of Kip Myers and Gerald Langston for possession and manufacture of methamphetamine. My jaw dropped. Gerald Langston? Was the second drug dealer the father of my classmate? Both men, according to the report, had prior convictions for assault and for burglary.

  Then the reporter said, “A student at Heath Middle School, Rusty Larson, recognized the signs of a meth lab after learning about them in class. He tipped off the police.”

  I was so shocked to hear my name on the radio that I dropped my spoon into my bowl of cereal, splas
hing milk all over.

  While I was mopping up the table, Heidi Kellogg called. Mom told her about Ra’s condition, then handed me the phone.

  “Congratulations, Rusty,” Heidi said. “Not only did you discover an illegal drug lab, but you gave me the evidence I needed to refile the cruelty charges.”

  “But we can’t prove that it was Mr. Myers who hurt Ra,” I said.

  “No, but he didn’t seek help for Ra’s injuries. Not only that, there was another dog inside the house. A Rottweiler this time. He was half starved, the same as Ra and the Labrador puppy, and his filthy crate was too small. Apparently, Mr. Myers mistreated the dogs and didn’t feed them enough because he wanted them to be mean so they’d prevent anyone from coming on his property and discovering what he was doing there.”

  “What a scumbag,” I said. Then I started to laugh. “He wanted Ra to be mean but he’s the only one who got bit. Twice!”

  “I’ll win the case this time,” Heidi said. “Of course, Mr. Myers will be in prison anyway.”

  Mom pointed to her watch and I knew I had to leave for school. Her one concession to my late night had been to say she’d drive me, which meant I could leave ten minutes later than when I rode the school bus.

  I had called Andrew as soon as I got up and told him the whole story. He greeted me when I walked into Mrs. Webster’s room. “Hail the helpful hero!” he cried, and extended his hand for a high five.

  Other kids crowded around. Some had heard the radio broadcast that morning. The news had spread quickly through the halls of Heath.

  “I heard your name on the news,” Jordan said.

  “You’re a celebrity!” said Lexi.

  “Are you going to be on Oprah?” asked Hayley.

  Mrs. Webster beamed. “I knew my guest speakers were worthwhile,” she said, “but I didn’t expect such dramatic results.”

  I looked at my classmates’ excited faces. All but one. Gerald Langston sat as still as a stone, staring at his desk. Matthew walked over and stood beside Gerald. I expected Matthew to ask, “Have you seen the jailbird lately? ” and I would not have blamed him one bit for saying it. Instead, he patted Gerald’s shoulder, and then walked to his own desk without speaking.