Finally Dwight drew himself up and narrowed his eyes. “Okay. Which one of you took it? Well, it doesn’t matter. I’m starting this meeting gavel or not!”
Crunch, crunch, crunch. Gnaw, gnaw, gnaw.
Slowly, like a condemned man I glanced down to my right and then closed my eyes. Dog was happily making splinters out of Dwight’s precious gavel. I’m many things, but I’m not a coward.
“Excuse me!” I picked up the dog-slobbery mess with two fingers and held it up. “I . . . uh . . . I think I have the gavel.” I walked it up to the podium. The crowd was howling with laughter, but I noticed that Ida hadn’t snickered the first snicker.
I mumbled my apologies and the promise of a new gavel as soon as I could order one. Dwight just stared at his symbol of office with disbelieving eyes. I didn’t blame him. I didn’t want to touch it either. Gently, I laid it on the table and returned to my seat. Most of the laughing had subsided by the time I was silently promising Dog horrible retribution.
Ida stood in the silence and shushed the crowd further by waving her hands downward. “I’m going to break protocol tonight and open the session instead of our esteemed Chair, Mr. Truman.” She looked straight at me. “I’m also going to do something I should have done a long time ago. I’m going to tell you about a man who never gives up. Someone Mossy Creek can count on. Someone we like to ignore because he’s our conscience in many ways. He watches our pennies. He pushes us to be more. He tells us when we’re wrong.”
She scooted around her chair to stand next to Dwight. I was hoping she’d catch his jaw because it was about to hit the floor. She laid a hand on his shoulder. “Oh boy, does he tell us when we’re wrong.
“What we forget is that Dwight was raised to be a pillar of the community. His Daddy decided Dwight would follow in his footsteps. When other kids were out playing, Dwight was being tutored in civics or enrolled in one of the hundreds of community service projects his Daddy thought were important for Dwight’s moral fiber and work ethic.”
She looked around the room. “It worked. Dwight has never shirked a responsibility in his life. Certainly not when it came to Mossy Creek civic duty.” A hushed murmur of agreement issued from the audience. “It’s my opinion that Dwight could actually use a little time to enjoy the Mossy Creek he’s helped build.”
The kids didn’t know what was going on, but the parents clapped and agreed. You could see several of them looking at Dwight with new eyes. Not a one of them had thought about the fact that someone had had to do all the things Dwight did. Sometimes it takes more courage to paddle against the flow.
Even Dog woofed a couple of times. Dwight looked downright shocked. While he was composing himself, Ida signaled someone in the doorway. Rob Walker wheeled in one of the sleekest adult bikes I’d seen in a long time. Wheeled it right up in front of the council table and flipped the kickstand.
“Councilman Truman,” Ida said, “the citizens of Mossy Creek would like to thank you for all you hard work through the years and present you with this token of our affection. May you ride it in health and good fun.”
Everyone else was clapping for an overcome Dwight, who looked pleased as punch and red as a box of Valentine candy. I was clapping for Ida. She knew it. I gave her a little salute. Dog and I went home. There wouldn’t be any more council business tonight.
THE FRIDAY NIGHT ball game crowd included one young man I was particularly interested in seeing. Clay Atwood sat in the bleachers. By himself. When he saw Dog, he vaulted off his seat and met us halfway to the field.
“I was hoping you’d bring him. Heyya, boy! Remember me?”
Dog’s reception was obviously one of an old friend. The wrestling commenced immediately. I hauled the two of them apart and asked Clay where his dad was.
“Said he had some business and I should stay here until he got back.”
“Uh huh. Tell you what. Why don’t you sit in the dugout with the team and hold Dog for me?”
“Really?”
“Sure. You have to be nice to the girls or Casey Blackshear will have you scrubbing out the kennels. No poking, teasing, or arguing.”
“Aw! But Caralee’s on the team. She’s mad at me about the library reading books.”
“Sorry. Either you agree or you sit in the stands and Dog is lonely all night.”
Dog whined and cocked his head. He did a right nice job of begging. I appreciated it. I wanted Clay in the dugout with the team so I wouldn’t miss meeting his father. I handed Clay the ball bag I was carrying for Casey and watched them scamper over to the bench.
Casey rolled up beside me. “You look worried.”
“Girls with softballs scare me.”
She rolled her eyes. “It’s more than that.” But she didn’t push it. She had a game to coach. I imagined I might get another question or two from her on the subject of my worry after the game.
Fortunately, I didn’t have to mention Clay to convince Casey I had troubles on my mind. Like Laurie Grey. New to town, an interesting woman and, according to Sandy, a woman who was more than a little ill with no support system in sight.
Casey’s girls played a great game against one of their arch rivals—the Big Sky Ravens, rich little girls with fancy equipment and the best coach money could buy. But our team has an unshakable desire to win. They believe that they can beat any team. That’s Casey’s gift to coaching.
We’d have won, too, if it hadn’t been for that unfortunate incident in the last inning. Score tied. We had two outs. I had a runner on third, a bunt on the way, and the opposing pitcher on the move.
Everything depended on my runner getting home and the pitcher fumbling that ball. I did what any base coach does. I signaled run, shouted, yelled and encouraged. I did lots of things, but I am all but certain I did not signal Dog to streak out onto the field and grab that softball.
Not that Foxer Atlas, the game’s umpire, cared. He threw me, the dog, Casey and our girls out of the game for willful interference. Foxer and I were chest to chest for a while there. I don’t like being called a cheat; the parents were screaming for my blood. I could see Katie scribbling for all she was worth.
“Foxer, for God’s sake. I’m the Chief of Police. I do not cheat!”
“Well, your dog does.”
I threw my hands up. “How is this possibly my fault? I wasn’t holding his leash, and he’s not my dog.”
“You’rrrre outta here!” You could tell Foxer was enjoying himself immensely.
My lawyer muscled between us at this point. As big as Mac Campbell is, I couldn’t even see around him to give Foxer a piece of my mind. “Give it up, Amos,” Mac ordered. “Dog is your dog. He’s with you 24/7.”
“He’s not my dog. He’d eat the chair if I left him at home. Besides that, this is all Hank’s fault. He wouldn’t take him.”
“Then take Dog down to the Bigelow pound or give him away.”
“You keep missing the point, Mac. He’s not mine to give away. His owners are going to want him back.”
“His owner needs to wise up and smell the dog hair.”
Woof.
I looked down. When did this happen? When did Dog become my dog? I smiled. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. But our softball signals could use some work. I leaned down to scratch his ears. “Huh, boy?”
Then I frowned as I realized Clay and his father had gotten away without my noticing. Okay, tomorrow. First thing. Dog and I were making a house call.
“THIS IS STILL NOT your chair,” I warned Dog as we tumbled in the door from the ball game. Tonight he didn’t wait for me to tell him it was okay to roam the house. “And you are going to have to figure out a way to make it up to all those girls. And Casey. You have to apologize to her.”
He stopped on the way to the kitchen to look back at me. Woof? (Again?)
“Yeah.
And you’ll keep apologizing until she starts speaking to us again.”
I noticed the light blinking on the answering machine. “That’s probably from Casey, and I’m not defending you. You’re taking the rap for this.”
The machine whirred through its process and announced the message time in a monotone. Barely a few minutes ago. “Chief? This is Earlene Hardeman. You told me to call. About Clay Atwood and his daddy. He’s hit him this time. Backhanded him into the trailer. I hope this is you. I can’t read these tiny numbers that well. If you get this, you come on now.”
“Dog!” I grabbed my keys and my gear off the coat rack. I could hear Dog’s nails scrabbling for purchase as he turned the corner out of the kitchen.
I had Mac on the phone and caught up on the details before I’d pulled out of my driveway. “I don’t care what you have to do or who you have to wake up. I’m bringing that boy back. I want him in emergency care with a family in Mossy Creek. He’s not going through family services over in Bigelow. I want him here where he’ll feel comfortable. Cut the corner off a circle if you have to, but you call me back in five minutes and tell me it’s done and I have the authority to pull that child out of that trailer.”
That done, my next call was to the sheriff’s department to let them know I was rolling on this call and would advise if I needed assistance. The chances of a county car being any closer than me were slim and none. As I suspected, they were more than happy to let me handle this.
Most of the trailers were dark by the time I pulled up to the park. The Atwood trailer was one of them. I saw Earlene look out her window as I got out of the Jeep. I nodded. The curtain winked shut.
Dog trotted alongside me to the Atwood’s. I knocked. No one stirred. I knocked louder. This time a complaint rumbled through the trailer, followed by a begrudging and gruff, “Hold your horses.”
The light flared on. Samuel Atwood pulled open the aluminum door, but left the screen door closed. He’d pulled on a hasty pair of pants, hadn’t bothered with the snap. His t-shirt was clean.
“Mr. Atwood?”
“You? No need you coming around here. I already disciplined the boy for letting the dog loose.”
“Could I see the boy?”
“What for? I already told you I took care of it. I’d think you’d have better things to do than come around here rousting us out of bed over a little mix-up like that ball field thing.”
“Mr. Atwood, let me make myself a little more clear. I’m not here because of what the boy did. I’m here because of what you’ve done and to be sure the boy’s all right after your discipline. We’ve had a complaint. I need to see Clay. Clay, you in there?”
Dog whined.
“Who complained? That old biddy?” He pointed at Earlene’s trailer. She can’t see squat without her glasses on, and she goes to bed at eight o’clock. You just wait. My boy’ll tell you he’s fine.”
I shifted back from the door. “Fine. Get him out here or I’m going to need to come inside and see for myself.”
For the first time Samuel began to look impatient. “Well, he ain’t here. He run off. I gave the kid a little swat, and he run off. That’s what he does. Runs off and has his sissy cry and then comes slinking back.”
Anger has no place in law enforcement. It clouds the judgment. I did my best to shove mine as far inside as possible, but it pulsed insistently. “How old is Clay?”
Samuel shifted back and forth on his feet, he could feel the noose tightening. “He’ll be nine come September.”
“You let a nine-year-old boy go off, unsupervised, in the middle of the night? And you went to bed?”
“I was just restin’. There’s nothin’ to worry about. He’ll be back. He always comes back. Just ask that old biddy over there.”
Part of me wanted to haul Atwood out of the trailer and down to jail, but Clay was my first priority. Without taking my eyes off Atwood, I asked my partner for help. “Find him, Dog. Go get me Clay.”
Like a greyhound off the mark, Dog streaked away. He’d been quietly whining and leaning toward the woods on our right. I had a pretty good idea that’s where Clay was, probably curled up against one of the old-as-time trees and feeling guilty about hating his father. He didn’t know he wasn’t alone in that.
While I waited, I stared at Atwood. Sometimes the silence is palpable this far out from town. Any little sound carries in the stillness. Soon enough Dog began barking and I heard a faint but definite exclamation from a surprised kid. Atwood huffed. “Told you.”
“That’s good. That’s real good. Here’s what the deal is, Atwood. I’m going to go find those two, and when I get back here, if you’re still here, I’ll be arresting you. Child endangerment, neglect, abuse and anything else I can make stick.”
“What if I’m not here?”
For the first time in what seemed like hours, I smiled. Atwood wasn’t as stupid as he looked. “Then if I ever find you, I’ll be charging you with all of that plus abandonment. But one way or the other, that little boy will not be hit again. Not while I’m drawing breath.”
A second after Atwood shut the door, I heard the sounds of cabinets being opened and drawers being slammed. I grabbed the high-beam out of the back of the Jeep and went hunting for the boys. They met me before I’d gone more than a hundred yards. Clay ran at me so hard, I stumbled when I caught him. I hugged him close and made room for Dog, who seemed to think it was his due as a hero.
Clay seemed content to hold up in the middle of the field and collect himself. I kept an eye on Earlene’s trailer in the distance. I didn’t want Samuel causing any problems. On the off chance that Sandy might be right where I needed her, I pulled my walkie and keyed Mossy Creek dispatch. “Sandy?”
“Right here, Chief.”
I leaned the walkie against my forehead for a moment. Then I keyed again. “I do not know what I’d do without you. Over.”
“Not nearly as well,” she informed me. “Mac called. Said you might need me. Over.”
“I do. I need you to haul out to the Bailey Mills trailer park.” I described Earlene’s trailer and asked Sandy come out tonight and get a full statement while the details were fresh.
“I’m on it, Chief! And Mac said to call him pronto. Over.”
“Yes, ma’am. Out.”
A COUPLE OF HOURS later, Clay and I stood on Mac and Patty’s porch saying our goodbyes. Mac had not only cut every bit of red tape he could find, he made sure that Clay landed on their doorstep. In barely more than an hour, Mac had had them approved for emergency foster care. Since they’d already been approved for state adoption, it was a pretty small leap to emergency foster care. Especially when you have a father who’s a judge and willing to call in favors.
Clay had taken to Mac and Patty like a duck to water. There’s a whole lot to like in Mac and Patty. Great house, great dogs and a lot of love saved up waiting. Even so, he wasn’t quite ready to let go of my hand or Dog’s neck. Patty whispered for me not to rush him and took their labs back inside. Maddie, the pale yellow one had been reluctant to leave Clay’s side, but after giving some sort of doggie instruction look to Dog, she allowed Patty to drag her back inside.
Before Mac closed the door, he said, “Son, you just knock when you’re ready to come in. We’ll be here.”
I nodded and waited for Clay to tell me whatever it was he’d been working up to all night. He kissed Dog on the head, then looked at me. “He didn’t want me.”
“Maybe he was just scared. He may be back.”
“No.” Clay’s eyes were bone dry and his voice didn’t so much as quiver. “I mean he didn’t want me before. So I don’t want him now.”
I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to argue or agree that it was okay to feel that way. This was Patty’s job. Not mine. I didn’t know what to do, especially since it was my fault his father was g
one. Battle would have been proud of how I handled this one. I sure as hell nudged it the way I wanted it to play out.
“Hey,” I said, “why don’t we give it some time?”
He nodded, kissed Dog again and knocked on the door. Just before it opened he said, “I’ll be okay.”
Patty gathered him in. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her look happier. Clay is definitely going to be one of her visionary pieces if everything works out like we’ve planned.
Dog followed me to the car, looking over his shoulder once or twice. As we reached the car, he balked and sat down.
Woof. (Do you need me?)
In that moment my heart sank, because I knew exactly what he meant. My dog was asking me to be a hero. “Do I need you? Like do I need you as much as a scared young boy who’s just lost his father?” I took a couple of deep breaths. I sure as hell didn’t want to cry on the phone to Patty. And then I dialed her number.
“Hey, I need a favor. I need you to take Dog.”
“What? Why?”
“Clay needs him more than me.” I cleared my throat. “Just open the door and let Clay’s dog in.”
She did.
I went home to my leather chair and discovered that you need a lot more than a leather chair to be happy.
The Mossy Creek Gazette
215 Main Street * Mossy Creek, Georgia
From the Desk of Katie Bell, Business Manager
Lady Victoria Salter Stanhope
The Cliffs
Seaward Road
St. Ives, Cornwall TR3 7PJ
United Kingdom
Dear Vick:
Hello from the Assistant Editor of the Mossy Creek Gazette. How do you like my new stationery? To bring you up to date since last fall, when we solved the mystery of who burned down our old high school (The Fang and Claw Club will never have secret initiations again) plans are being drawn up for the new building. But the wheels of progress turn as slowly as an old grist mill when Mossy Creek is running low, which is “not at all.”
Summer in Mossy Creek Page 4