Paw Enforcement (A Paw Enforcement Novel)

by Kelly, Diane

  Dressed in his wrangler outfit, he’d blend right in. As soon as he could find a parking spot, that is. Every lot seemed to be full, every spot at the curb taken.

  He cruised the block in his father’s car. He’d left his pink Cadillac at home, knowing it might be too memorable. But a black Lexus? These cars were designed to be tastefully demure.

  Mere minutes ago, he’d slid the envelope containing his manifesto into a box at the downtown post office on Taylor Street. The envelope was addressed to the managing editor of the Fort Worth Star-Telegram, sometimes jokingly referred to as the Startle-Gram. The editor would certainly be startled when the manifesto landed on his desk in the next day or two.

  It hadn’t taken the Rattler long to craft his manifesto. After all, his principles were straightforward and simple. Unlike “Unabomber” Ted Kaczynski, the Rattler had no intention of rambling on for thirty-five thousand words. Seriously, dude, get to the fucking point already. It’s not like they pay by the word.

  WOOooo.

  Holy.

  Shit.

  The Rattler had been so caught up in his musings and his search for a parking place that he’d run a red light—a light with a cop sitting in an alleyway just past it, waiting to snag someone for a traffic violation.

  Given the bedsheet and bombs in his trunk, the Rattler’s first impulse was to floor the gas pedal and attempt to flee, but he knew such an attempt would fail. Cruisers had powerful engines, and even if he got away from this particular cop the officer would call for backup and have a helicopter on him in seconds. Besides, the cop had seen the license plate on his father’s car. They’d identify the Rattler in no time. No way would he spend the rest of his life behind bars.

  He’d rather die.

  His heart pumping so loud it virtually rendered him deaf, the Rattler pulled over, stopped the car, and unrolled his window. It seemed like an eternity before the cop climbed out of his cruiser and came to the Rattler’s window.

  Shit. Again.

  It was that dickhead with the red hair, the one who worked the mall beat, constantly tugged on his pants to rearrange his nuts, and came on to every woman in the place. Officer Mackey. The Rattler had watched him. What a supreme asshole.

  The Rattler knew Sundance Square wasn’t part of Mackey’s usual beat, but given the drunken hordes here tonight he guessed that officers from other districts had been assigned here to help with crowd control.

  The prick bent down to the window, blowing onion-scented breath in the Rattler’s face. He looked the Rattler’s costume over and issued a grunt of amusement. “Howdy, pardner,” he said with no sign of recognition. “You just ran a red light.”

  “I’m sorry,” the Rattler said. “I was distracted by that woman in the saloon girl costume.”

  “Can’t blame you there.” Mackey emitted an onion-fumed chuckle. “Nice rack on that one, huh?”

  “You know it!”

  The two nodded their heads in unison, agreeing that yes, breasts were awesome.

  Wow, am I actually going to get away scot-free?

  No such luck. Mackey whipped out his pad and wrote Randy a ticket, tossing it through the window. “Keep your eyes off the tits and on the road.”

  SEVENTY

  BREAKING UP ISN’T HARD TO DO … FOR SOME PEOPLE

  Megan

  Seth and I had so much fun on Halloween it should have been illegal.

  I’d worn a black cat costume complete with a bendy tail. Seth had dressed as a pirate, with an eye patch, a plastic sword at his waist, and a stuffed parrot on his shoulder. While our dogs had a date on my couch, we’d barhopped at Sundance Square, drinking and dancing until the wee hours of the night.

  With all the stress we’d been under with the bomber on the loose, it felt great to set our troubles aside for a few hours and enjoy life and each other’s company.

  I’d been concerned that the Tunabomber would take advantage of the holiday to plant more bombs. After all, on a night when everyone was in costume and carrying props it would have been easy to do so without anyone noticing. Fortunately, he must have had other plans that night. Halloween came and went without a single explosion.

  When Seth brought me home that night, he not only gave me a warm kiss, but he also held me gently in his arms, bending down to press his forehead to mine in a soft, sweet gesture, as if trying to read my mind and learn everything about me by osmosis.

  He wanted to be closer to me. That much was clear.

  For the first time in a long time, maybe even ever, the loneliness completely left me.

  * * *

  Three days after Halloween, Detective Jackson summoned me to her office and gestured for me to take a seat. She handed me a single sheet of paper. It was titled “A Warning Rattle” and read:

  Priorities must change. Excessive self-interest can no longer be tolerated. The material means nothing. Equality and justice are required now. Until everyone takes this message to heart, I must continue my efforts to instigate change. Think about this as you contemplate the recent events at the mall, the country club, and Sundance Square. And for fuck’s sake, lose the “Tunabomber” moniker. It demeans us all.

  The Rattler

  Oh, my God. The letter was from him. The bomber.

  I looked up at the detective, so many questions running through my mind but none coherent enough to escape my gaping mouth.

  “The letter was mailed to the newspaper on Halloween,” she said. “Given the reference to Sundance Square, we believe he may have made an attempt to place explosives there but was thwarted somehow.”

  The thought that Seth and I could have crossed paths with the bomber caused my spinal fluid to freeze. When I could finally get my words out, I asked, “Were there any fingerprints on the letter or envelope?”

  “None.”

  “What does this name mean? The Rattler.”

  “Hell if I know. You got any ideas?”

  “The Lipscombs had that rattlesnake.”

  “We’ve ruled them out, remember?”

  “Think we should rule them back in?”

  The detective exhaled sharply. “Again, hell if I know.”

  “Do we know where the letter was mailed it from?” I asked. “Is there any video footage of the bomber sticking the letter in the box?”

  “He mailed it from the downtown post office. The video feed shows a letter being mailed by a person wearing a white bedsheet with holes cut out for the eyes. You know, like Charlie Brown in that Great Pumpkin show.”

  Coincidental, probably, but the tone and angst in the Rattler’s letter reminded me of Charlie Brown’s consternation in the Christmas special, when the poor kid tries to find meaning in the holiday beyond the artificial trees and the gifts and the greed and the supercolossal lights and display contests. No matter how many times I watched the show, I always found it heartbreaking when Charlie lamented the fact that even his baby sister and dog had “gone commercial.”

  Something niggled at me, though. There was something about the letter that seemed familiar somehow, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.

  “What now?” I asked the detective, returning the paper to her.

  “We’ve got a profiler working on it,” she said. “The only thing he’s come up with so far is that it’s likely a young white guy.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “’Cause with this crazy-ass shit,” she replied, “it’s always a young white guy.”

  * * *

  Fall marched on with no progress in the bombing investigation. Frustration and fear were my constant companions. No doubt the bomber would strike again. But when? And where?

  It was Sunday of the second week in November now, and Thanksgiving loomed. Seth and I had met for lunch a couple of times recently, but between me being assigned a two-week round of night shifts and his reservist weekend coming up again, we’d had no time for real dates. At least I was back on the day shift again now. Those night hours threw my biorhythms for a loop.

>   Seth had mentioned that he had today off from work and, on a whim, I decided to surprise him by popping by his place on my lunch break. I couldn’t remember the street or house number, but I recalled what the house looked like. I spent ten minutes rolling up and down the streets of the Morningside neighborhood before I spotted the house.

  Gray paint. Ugly orange brick. Mismatched shingles. And Seth on a ladder, shoeless and shirtless, cleaning out the gutters.

  He scooped handfuls of leaves and twigs out of the channels and tossed them into a garbage can below. Damn, but the guy made housework look sexy.

  Given the unseasonably warm weather, quite a few people were working on their yards today. Seth’s next-door neighbor was trimming limbs with a chain saw as I pulled up, the bzzzzz masking the sound of my cruiser’s engine.

  I unrolled my window, cut the motor, and simply watched Seth for a moment, savoring the chance to observe him in his natural state, unnoticed. The neighbor finished with his chain saw and disappeared inside his garage.

  As I watched, the screen door to Seth’s house flew open and an elderly man in wrinkled pants and a blue pajama shirt stormed out onto the porch. Well, perhaps “stormed” was too strong a word given that he pulled a wheeled oxygen tank behind him.

  He looked up at Seth. “What did I tell you?” he hollered. “You can’t just toss that shit into the yard!”

  Seth didn’t bother looking down. “I’m not. Look. I’m using a garbage can.”

  The man waved an arm around. “It’s blowing all over the place!”

  Though Seth spoke slowly, the tone made it clear he was on the edge of snapping back at the old man. “I’ll clean up the yard when I’m done up here, Grandpa.”

  “You’d better, you dumb bastard!”

  With that, the man marched back inside, the screen door slapping shut behind him.

  I sat there, stupefied. What, exactly, had I just witnessed?

  Seth crooked an arm over the edge of the roof now and rested his forehead on it, obviously frustrated. Part of me felt I should leave, let him have this private moment to himself. But another part of me wanted to understand what the hell had just happened and to offer him some type of support.

  Dumb bastard?

  What kind of grandfather calls his grandchild such an awful name?

  Of course here in Texas men called one another bastards and sons of bitches all the time, but they did so with a jesting grin and followed it up with a companionable handshake or slap on the back to make it clear the term was being used ironically. Seth’s grandfather had done nothing of the sort.

  When a squirrel skittered up the trunk of a nearby oak, Brigit sat up on the backseat and emitted a loud and unexpected bark, causing me to nearly jump out of my skin and Seth to look in my direction.

  He didn’t look happy to see me.

  Uh-oh.

  I raised a hand and called out the open window, “Hey!”

  Without responding, he climbed down the ladder and stepped over to the car. A light sheen of sweat covered his chest and shoulders, and specks of dust and leaf particles had stuck in the sweat. Still, the effect only made him look more manly, like a force of nature.

  “What are you doing here?” His voice was dull, lifeless, like it had been after the bombing at the country club, as if something in him had shut down.

  “I’m on my lunch break,” I said. “Thought I’d see if you wanted to grab a bite to eat.”

  Again he failed to reply, but he circled around to the other side of my patrol car and climbed in. I glanced over at his dusty bare feet and shirtless chest. Looked like we’d have to pick up something at a drive-thru and eat in the car. I’d been hoping for a real lunch at a table with a plate and a fork, but no sense being inflexible.

  I pulled away from the curb and we drove to a Sonic a mile away. There was little on the menu that met my healthy-eating requirements, so I settled for an iced tea, ordering a burger for Brigit. Seth leaned across me to call his order into the intercom, getting a burger for himself, as well as fries and a frozen drink.

  While we waited for our food, I decided to take a chance and break the ice. “You live with your grandpa?”

  Seth stared straight ahead. “Yep.”

  I wondered why he’d never mentioned it. “Is he always like that?” I asked.

  “Like what?” Seth asked, still fixated on the windshield.

  “I don’t know … mean?”

  I’d meant my words to show concern and support, so I was shocked when Seth said, “Don’t go there, Megan.” His harsh tone carried an unmistakable warning.

  Confused, I sat in silence until the waitress arrived with our food.

  “That’ll be twelve-sixty-seven,” she said.

  Seth looked down as if realizing for the first time that he wore only a pair of shorts. “Ah, shit. I don’t have my wallet.”

  “No problem.” I pulled a twenty from my purse and handed it to the girl. I gave her a two-dollar tip and dropped the rest of the change in my purse.

  Brigit and Seth ate while I quietly sipped my tea, picked at the bun from Brigit’s burger, and wondered why I suddenly felt worlds apart from the very man I thought I’d been growing closer to.

  When Seth finished his lunch, he gathered up his trash, climbed out of the car, and carried it to a can along the wall. He returned to my cruiser but didn’t get back inside. Instead, he rested his elbows on the open window and leaned in. “Look, Megan. I just … I don’t…”

  He shook his head as if angry with himself that he couldn’t get the words out. Hell, I could relate to that.

  He looked at me for a split second, a darkness in his eyes, before shifting his focus off to his left. “This isn’t going to work out.”

  KABOOM!

  That was the sound of my heart exploding. They’d probably heard it all the way to Oklahoma. It actually felt as if there were a ragged hole in my chest. It was all I could do not to burst into tears.

  But after the initial shock wore off, it took everything in me not to whip out my baton, beat him with it, and demand answers. Why wouldn’t this work out? What changed your mind? Is there someone else? What kind of game are you playing here? What the hell do you want from me?

  But I would not grovel. I would not point out that he owed me eight bucks for his lunch, either. That would just seem petty. But I couldn’t pretend as if this meant nothing at all. At this point, saying, No biggie, or, It wasn’t working for me, either, would only underscore my hurt and let him know I’d cared more for him than either of us had realized until now.

  Biting my lip to put an end to its quivering, I looked over at him. Despite having just broken up with me, he had not backed away from my car. He still leaned in, though his eyes were now locked on my steering wheel instead of my face. Asshole. The least he could do was have the balls to look me in the eye as he crushed me.

  “Okay. Take c-care, S-Seth.”

  I hit the button to roll up my window, forcing his arms off the sill. He took a step back but made no move to go, instead watching as I backed up and drove off.

  I hoped he enjoyed his barefoot walk home, the dumb bastard.

  SEVENTY-ONE

  CHEER UP, MEGAN

  Brigit

  Her partner lay curled up on the futon and cried most of the evening. Brigit did her best to lick the salty tears away, but it didn’t seem to help. They just kept coming.

  Brigit tried distracting Megan by doing some of her tricks. Walking on her hind legs. Rolling over. Playing dead.

  Nothing.

  As a last resort, she opened the closet and latched on to a pair of sneakers, dragging them out into the middle of the floor. Surely that would give Megan something else to think about. But Megan didn’t seem to care. She just lay there, her wet eyes staring off into space.

  Finally, Brigit climbed onto the futon next to Megan and lay down, resting her nose next to Megan’s face.

  Sometimes a person just needs to know she’s not alone.

/>   Megan put her arms around Brigit and gave her a sad kiss on the forehead. “I really don’t deserve you, do I?”

  SEVENTY-TWO

  AULD BANG SYNE

  The Rattler

  Christmas would arrive in a matter of days. The mall bustled with shoppers loading their bags with more things they didn’t need and spending money they didn’t have, the holiday fueling and excusing their insatiable greed and lust for possessions. The shopping-mall Santa sat on his sleigh-shaped throne, the commercial icon encouraging children to tell him everything they wanted for Christmas.

  Greedy little shits.

  The Rattler sat on his stool next to the carousel, a smile plastered on his face for the sake of the children and their parents in line. But inside, he fumed.

  They still didn’t get it.

  He’d sent his manifesto to the newspaper and it had been printed, uploaded to the Internet, and reported on every news channel. Yet, obviously, it had made no difference.

  Well, fuck it.

  Fuck them.

  He’d set his next bomb just for the fun of it. And he’d put it somewhere guaranteed to have maximum impact. Then he’d make that move to the coast.…

  Officer Luz walked up with that fluffy-ass dog of hers. “Hi, Randy.”

  As always, she eyed his hatband. Today it sported a Hannah Montana Valentine’s card, a button that read: I am the Man from Nantucket, and a glitter-encrusted snowflake he’d made in kindergarten. To this day he could remember how carefully he’d cut the paper, the painstaking way he’d applied just the right amount of glue and sparkles so the snowflake would be perfect. He’d even convinced his teacher to let him skip recess to work on it. The day after he’d proudly presented it to his mother to hang on their Christmas tree, Randy had found it in the trash can. Apparently, his silly paper snowflake wasn’t worthy of hanging with her collection of Waterford crystal ornaments.