The Dog Thief

by Marta Acosta

  I waved my arms and when he hit the brakes, I dashed to his window. “Take me to the sheriff’s office. I need to tell him something.”

  “Why? Did a goat tell you it got abducted by aliens?’

  “I found a body. I think it’s Tessa Carozzo.”

  He tipped back his cowboy hat on his shaved head. “No shit! A dead body? Climb in.”

  I ran to let down the tailgate for Bertie and then I hauled myself up into the passenger seat. My driver maneuvered a tight three-point turn in the narrow road and hauled ass toward town.

  “Sorry about hassling you. Maybe we got off on the wrong foot last year.”

  “You think? You didn’t really think I was going to blow you behind the beer tent, did you?”

  “Well...I wanted to bang a cougar and the Bonanza Days parade always makes me very optimistic.”

  I don’t know why I laughed, the sound shooting out like pressure from a valve. I clasped my leg, just above my boot, where Ghost had bitten me, focusing on the sharp sensation. “I’m not a cougar. You have to be forty to be a cougar. I’m only thirty-one.”

  “Old enough to cougarize me. I’m twenty-three. By the way, I’m Jim Hardworth, but most people call me Hardwire. Because I work at the hardware store, right?”

  “That’s a good nickname. Call me Maddie.” I felt the dampness of blood seeping through the gauze bandage and the denim and the words, hardware, hardwire, reverberated in my head until the syllables blended together, meaningless and soothing.

  THE SHERIFF’S COYOTE Run substation was a squat brown building at the other end of the block from the Suncrest Market. When I walked in with Bertie, the desk clerk said, “No dogs allowed,” and pointed to a No Spitting, No Gum, No Dogs, Cell Conversations Outside sign.

  “He’s a licensed companion and therapy dog. I’m Madeleine Whitney.”

  “I know who you are, missy, and I said dogs outside.”

  I steadied my hand on Bertie’s collar. “I was cutting through the Carozzos’ place and found a body.” My voice pitched too high. “I think it’s Tessa Carozzo.”

  “Jesus H. Let me get the captain.”

  I dropped down to the varnished oak bench by the wall and waited. My legs kept shaking and colors seemed too bright, sounds too loud.

  In a few seconds, the clerk returned with a man wearing khaki slacks and a white shirt. Officially he was the sheriff’s captain, but everyone in Coyote Run called him sheriff. He was a few inches over 6’, yet intensely compact, as if someone had taken a much bigger man and compressed him to the point he might explode at any moment.

  Oliver Desjardins scowled. “Of course, it would be you.”

  “I just saw Claire.”

  “I do not give one rat’s ass.” He led me to a small gray room and gestured for his bored deputy to join us.

  I sat across from them at a white laminate table. Oliver cut his hair short, not hiding his ears like Claire always did because she thought they stuck out too much. His eyes were a golden-brown shade with pale lashes. Like Claire, he had a voice that was both gritty and honeyed—but grit like the rasp of sandpaper and honey like a tacky adhesive, sticking me in place when I wanted to bolt away as he asked too many questions about where I’d been and what I’d seen.

  I described everything: the stand of pines, the yellow-and-green gingham scrap, the boot, the coins, the drone of flies, the scrub jay, the white white skull, the stench that still filled my nostrils...

  The deputy became attentive and exchanged a look with Oliver before leaving the room.

  When the door closed behind him, I said, “Can you call Claire and tell her I’m here?”

  Oliver pressed his lips together until they were a narrow line, paling under the pressure. “You still don’t get it, do you? You’re nowhere near good enough for my sister and you never will be. Stay here until we verify your information.”

  Then he left me in the gray room, and I didn’t know if I was hot or cold, because my scalp was tingling and I had goose bumps, but a drop of perspiration ran between my breasts and another slid down my spine. After a while, the desk clerk brought me a cup of tea that had the chemical taste of powdered creamer. I slipped into the lunch room and took a ham and cheese hoagie from the refrigerator. Bertie ate it in three bites.

  Phones rang in the outer office and paper slithered from a copy machine. I looked at the clock on the wall. I had to get my truck and get home in time to meet Benjamin Meadows with Ghost and the pups.

  “You’ve said that already. About ten times,” said the desk clerk, who stood in the doorway.

  “I was talking to my dog. Sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” she said. “We located the body, but it’s not Tessa Carozzo. She’s at home with her family and they’re all freaking out. It’ll take us a while to identify the victim. Well, you saw the condition.”

  I shuddered as subtly as I could so the bones and muscles of my shoulders could shift themselves the right places under my skin.

  “You okay, Ms. Whitney? No, you don’t have to answer. You can go on home now. I’ll give you a ride. Where did you say your truck is?”

  “At the Jensen place. Will you take my dog, too?”

  “He can come only if you tell me why my cat keeps pissing on my husband’s shoes.”

  Chapter 3

  I DIDN’T RECALL DRIVING home, but there I was, passing through the wooden gate in time to see a silver gray Honda Pilot ahead of me, moving slowly on the dirt lane and then stopping on the gravel parking area beside my green wood frame house. White climbing roses were in full bloom over the doorway. I parked and watched Ben Meadows step out of the SUV and unload a crate with Ghost and her puppies. He looked my way, and I creaked open the truck door and came forward with Bertie at my side.

  My skin tingled all over and I said, “I found a dead body. There were coins on the ground and this sound, zzzzzzzzz, all the flies. The coagulated blood had dried black and the skull was stark white.”

  “Word got out about that. Let’s get these dogs settled in first and then you can tell me—if that’s what you want.”

  “I knew it was a body before I saw it. I smelled it. Decomposing flesh has a smell, horrible because it’s not horrible, because our primal selves get a thrill at the scent of decomposing flesh even though we should be revolted and we are revolted by our instinctual reactions. Do you know what I mean?”

  He tilted his head to the left while raising his right shoulder, perhaps his own effort at equilibrium. “I do, but wish I didn’t.”

  “The smell is in my nose. Corpse molecules.”

  “You have a nice place here. Open and calm. The breeze is fresh. Breathe in the clean air.”

  “The ranch belonged to my grandfather. It was rented out for years, and then we came back to Coyote’s Run, me and my sister.”

  I reached to take the crate, but Ben held it away and said, “I’ll carry it. You’ll have to watch that Ghost doesn’t go licking the incision so she has time to heal.”

  “I’ll put an inflatable collar on her. It’s more comfortable than a cone. I’m talking too much. I usually don’t like to talk to new people. Not that I hate them. Okay, most of the time, I do, but I am making a sincere effort to give you the benefit of the doubt. I’m still talking.”

  “Go on. I like your voice. You have a musical cadence.”

  “I didn’t speak until I was almost five, even though I knew words—they’re constantly in my head—and I couldn’t make them come out unless I sang. I want to stop talking now. Tell me to shut up.”

  “Then I’d be the one talking too much. Maybe you’ll sing for me sometime.”

  “Not fucking likely. I don’t even know who the hell you are. You could be the murderer. Is it a mere coincidence that you show up and I find a dead body?”

  “Even if I was, chances are you’re safe since Doug knows I’m here. If I was a murderer, I wouldn’t leave witnesses.”

  “You sound like you’ve considered the possibilities. I sa
id ‘could be.’ I don’t automatically assume there’s a single way for a murderer to look or act.”

  “You’re very open-minded.”

  “Thank you for noticing. No one else does.”

  We could hear the dogs in my canine rehab center barking from the far corner of the property. As we walked there, Meadows asked, “I sing to my pets, although my old girl, Candy, died last year, and you don’t have to tell me it’s a stupid name. She was just that sweet. How many animals do you have here?”

  “Besides Bertie, I have three dogs. Another six are going through my program, and four are boarding. I get more in the summer and holidays when people take vacations. We have two nanny goats, five rabbits, eight chickens, one rooster, and approximately five barn cats. The number of cats and chickens fluctuates, depending upon the coyotes and raccoons. My sister commandeered my horse for her therapy clinics. She’s got four horses of her own.”

  “I thought you gave the horse therapy sessions.”

  “I do canine rehabilitation and training. Kenzie’s a psychologist who specializes in using animals, mostly horses, to help children with developmental disorders. She’s the people person and I’m the dog person.”

  “You don’t work with other species, like cats?”

  “There’s no point in working with cats because cats don’t give a shit what anyone thinks.”

  He laughed. “So your sister treats kids with problems like autism?”

  “Yes, and other behavioral and psychological problems. Is this your way of asking me if I have issues?”

  “No. You don’t even know who the hell I am so it’s none of my business.”

  “I don’t like labels. I don’t like categories. I don’t want to be a part of any group, society, or organization. I don’t want to have a mission statement or network. I don’t want to attend meetings. I loathe meetings.”

  “Okay.”

  We went past the barn, and Dr. Meadows noticed the row of vintage travel trailers, each with a wooden deck and awning. “I’ve always wanted one of these land yachts.”

  “The horse therapy clients like to stay in them. They have privacy when they need it, without getting too isolated. Supposedly, isolation is bad if you want to manage behavioral problems. I may disagree. Whatever. Anyway, they’re empty now, waiting for winter’s rains to rust and ruin them.”

  “Do you take care of all this on your own?”

  “Our ranch hand does most of the day-to-day chores, and I have a full-time assistant. A local child psychologist works with Kenzie when she holds therapy classes. She’s taking a break from it and consults for the county’s primary schools.” The horses hadn’t been brought in yet and they veered off but kept watching us. “Do you want to see the Stud Lot now?”

  “I can see it later. You’re limping, Madeleine.”

  “I prefer Maddie.”

  “Okay, Maddie. Call me Ben. I wouldn’t figure you for someone named Whitney.”

  “Yeah, well, neither did my father. Legal father. Which is another story.”

  The dogs gathered by the cyclone fence, atop which was a sign with Whitney Canine Rehabilitation Center. Ghost, still recovering from sedation, was passive while the puppies yipped, making the dogs circle curiously. I stood straighter and clicked my tongue in warning. When they’d calmed, I took the crate from Ben. “Follow me,” I said, and then opened the gate and led the way in.

  The dogs milled around us as we moved by them. My office was a double-wide trailer fronted with an elevated deck, where I usually ate lunch. Big shrubs and golden bamboo in wine barrels provided shade on hot days, and I’d built an obstacle course with rubber tires, ramps, and kiddie pools. The cinderblock kennels had runs with chain link fencing, and there were three small private rooms for special-needs animals.

  When I saw the message on the whiteboard that Jaison, my assistant, would be back to do a night run with the dogs, I realized I was very tired.

  Ben didn’t say anything as I hefted the crate into a private room. He watched as I laid out a clean bed of straw and placed bowls of food and water. I opened the crate’s gate so Ghost could come out when she wanted, and then I leaned against the wall.

  Ben pulled a prescription bottle from his jacket. “You’ll need to give her these for the next few days.” When I didn’t move, he turned his hand over so the bottle lay in the flat of his palm. “You don’t like me touching you.”

  “It’s not specific to you.” My body was off-kilter, and I shuddered in a futile effort to realign myself. “Some touches are...confusing.”

  “I thought...never mind.”

  I shifted from foot to foot. “Who told you I was an animal psychic?”

  “It came up in conversations about pet boarding.”

  “People are idiots. I could make good money if I pretended I to read animals’ minds or, better yet, if I actually could.”

  “If you were an animal psychic, it would make my job a lot easier. I wouldn’t have to tell people their cats have ‘undiagnosed gastrointestinal disorders.’ Cats always have undiagnosed gastrointestinal disorders,” he said. “Maddie, it’s getting late and you’re tired. You should get some rest.”

  “I could fall asleep right here.”

  “You’d have the puppies chewing at you all night. Let’s go to your house.”

  I left Bertie to play with the other dogs and called “Heidi, come,” to a glossy and massive Rottweiler, and we all went back toward Ben’s car. The first crickets began chirping and horses neighed in the distance. The branches of the live oaks were black against the deep blue sky and stars appeared, shining down on both the living and the dead, their light already tens of thousands of years old.

  “Light travels so far for so long that I can’t even fathom what it means,” I said. “I saw the bones. A bird was eating the flesh off her fingers. Her face was covered with hundreds, thousands of flies.”

  “It must have been frightening.”

  “It’s what flies do. We need carrion eaters to consume the waste. During the Civil War, maggots were used in soldiers’ wounds to clean out the rotten flesh.”

  “Debridement biotherapy is still used to treat gangrene, but we can discuss that another time. Is there someone here who can stay with you?”

  “I’ve got Heidi.” The Rottie lifted her huge block head at the sound of her name. “She exhibited aggression, but not anymore. Well, only on command. She’s still food guarding.” There weren’t any lights on in the house and the day’s sweat had cooled on my skin and chilled me through. “My sister’s probably in the general vicinity. She’ll be here for dinner.”

  “I’ll stay until she gets back.”

  We walked through the rose covered entrance, my nose twitching against the sweetness, and into the house’s big kitchen, flicking on lamps whose small light would only ever travel the distance of the room. Ben looked around at the ‘50s kitsch of colorful curtains, baskets, and dish towels.

  I collapsed on a chair and stared at my boots. “I didn’t decorate this room.”

  “I didn’t think so.” He took a glass off the counter, filled it with water, and brought it to me, setting it on the table within my reach.

  I drank so quickly water dribbled down my chin. I swiped my lips with the back of my hand. The ragged edges of my fingernails were dark with bark from the branch. “Thank you.”

  “Maddie, will you let me look at your feet?”

  When I didn’t answer, he crouched down and took my right boot in his hand, pulling it off by the heel. Blood had soaked through my sock where my blisters burst. He removed the other boot and then he rolled off my socks without touching my skin. He folded up the cuffs of my jeans and my bandage was peeling off, showing a large purple bruise with blood clotting around Ghost’s bite.

  “Dog bites. An occupational hazard. I’m always bruised and scabbed.”

  “Me, too, but the worst scar I have is from a goose,” he said with a grin, and I wondered what he looked like under his clothes. �
��I can take you to your doctor.”

  “It’s just a bite. No incidence of rabies in this county this year, and I cleaned the bite at your clinic.”

  “Let’s clean it again. Let me get my kit from the car.”

  “I can do it myself,” I said, even though I couldn’t remember how to stand and I was so cold. I buttoned my shirt to the collar and crossed my arms over my chest. “There’s a first-aid kit in the bathroom down the hall.”

  He left and I heard him rummaging through closets and drawers. He returned carrying a heavy wool blanket, a wet hand towel, bandages, and disinfectant. “Tell me how I can touch you without being confusing.”

  “No fussiness. No light touches. Treat me like you would handle a large animal.”

  He bundled the blanket over my shoulders, pulling it tight around me.

  Then Ben took my ankle firmly in his large warm hand and pivoted my foot. His thumb moved up my ankle to the bluish artery on my ankle and stayed there while he inspected my injuries. Only slivers of turquoise polish remained on the tips of my toenails from the time Claire had painted them long ago.

  I watched the shine of Ben’s wedding ring as he disinfected and dressed my wounds. He smelled good, a little like an old-fashioned pine aftershave and very faintly of sweat from a day’s work. I wanted him to rub my legs. I wanted him to pull off my blood and mud splotched jeans. I wanted his big body to enfold mine, a shell compressing and protecting me from what I’d seen. My breathing quickened. His eyes flicked up to my face and I tried to look as if I wasn’t thinking what I was thinking, because I wanted something immediate and all-encompassing to vanquish the images of bones and blood and flies and death.

  “Next time, wear hiking shoes.”

  “I don’t want there to be a next time.” Then I noticed Heidi’s alertness. Her stumpy tail beat a tattoo against the floor.

  The screen door on the kitchen porch banged loudly and my little sister was in the room. Her gray-blue eyes flitted from me to the man at my feet, back to me again. Kenzie leaned against the wall, jutting her hip out, and her hand went to her throat. She angled her head and her long chestnut hair fell in waves to one side. Her smooth skin was burnished by the sun to a lovely golden shade.