Laying Down the Paw

by Diane Kelly

  She shrugged. “There’s not really one primary place I can think of. Some of them end up in the parks or under the overpasses with the other homeless folks. Others, well … you know.”

  I was glad she didn’t fill in her sentence. I did know. And it was too hard to think about.

  When it was a half hour past the time high school let out, the detective phoned Zack, activating the speaker button so I could join in the conversation. After we identified ourselves, Jackson asked the boy if he’d heard from Dub.

  “Not since the day before he took off,” Zach said. “We used to hang together at lunch. But he hasn’t texted or called or sent me a message on Facebook or IM’d or anything.”

  “All right,” Jackson said. “Let us know if you do hear from him, okay?” She gave him both her number and mine.

  We repeated the same basic conversation with Patrick Fitzsimmons. He hadn’t heard from Dub via any of the myriad means of communication since Dub had run off.

  Jenna was a different story.

  While the contact number for Jenna Cell went straight to voicemail, we got an answer at the number identified as Jenna Home.

  Her voice was tentative and wary. “Is he in trouble?”

  “Unfortunately, yes,” the detective said. “How about we come over to your house and talk to you about it?”

  “Can you come now?” Jenna asked. “Before my mother gets home? She went to run some errands but she’ll be home in an hour.”

  Jackson looked at me and raised a brow. “We’re on our way.”

  We scurried to the cruiser, loaded Brigit in her bay, and took off for Jenna’s house. She lived at Berkeley Place, about a half mile from Lilac Street, where Dub had lived with Trent and Wes. She was watching from an upstairs window of the traditional brick and wood home as we pulled up. By the time we’d exited the cruiser and made our way to the front porch, she’d opened the front door.

  I gave the girl a once-over as we stepped into the foyer. She was a petite thing, maybe five feet one inch tall, and probably weighed less than my furry partner. Her copper-colored hair hung in a straight sheet down to her teeny-tiny boob buds. Like me, she had a scattering of freckles on her face. Her blue eyes were bright with worry.

  “Is Dub in trouble for running away and missing school?” she asked. “Will he be sent back to juvie if he’s found?”

  “Wade Mayhew has far bigger things to worry about than missing a few days of school,” the detective said. “He’s been implicated in a burglary and shooting.”

  “What?” Jenna shrieked. “That can’t be true!”

  “You ever see him wear a white hoodie with a tornado on it?” Jackson asked.

  Jenna swallowed, looking as if she knew exactly the garment Jackson had referenced but as if she wasn’t sure whether she should admit it.

  The detective didn’t wait for an answer that probably wasn’t coming anyway. “The young man who shot the couple was wearing it.”

  Jenna shook her head. “No, no, no! Dub’s not like that! I mean, he’s had it really hard and all, but he only did those things before because if he didn’t his father would beat him.”

  “He told you about that?” I asked.

  The girl nodded. “We were close.”

  “Were you dating?” I asked.

  She nodded again.

  Jackson eyed the girl closely. “We also think your Dub might have killed a man in Forest Park on the evening of Sunday, February eighth.”

  Jenna’s face contorted and her eyes went wide. She shook her head. “No. He couldn’t have!”

  Jackson tilted her head. “And how do you know that?”

  “Because he was here that night,” Jenna said, tears spilling down her cheeks. “In my room. My mother told me I couldn’t see him anymore once she found out he’d been in juvie and the state school and all that. She wouldn’t believe me that he’s a good guy.”

  Jackson’s brow furrowed. “If you weren’t allowed to see him, how could he be here at your house?”

  “My parents were gone,” she said. “When they came home early, he snuck out my window.”

  I motioned for her to follow me outside onto the lawn. I looked up at the house. “Which window is yours?”

  “It’s around the side.”

  The wind had picked up and bit into us as we stepped across the yard.

  After rounding the corner of the house, Jenna pointed up to a second-story window directly above the outdoor A/C unit. Jackson and I looked up at the window. The screen was a little bent on one side, as if it had been pulled off and replaced. Scuff marks were apparent on the wood siding, too, as if someone had scrabbled on the wall with their feet, seeking purchase. I almost felt sorry for the children I didn’t have yet. With a mother like me who noticed clues like this, they wouldn’t be able to get away with anything.

  Jackson turned back to Jenna. “You’re sure it was the eighth? A hundred percent sure?”

  “Positive,” she said. “Since my parents wouldn’t let me see Dub, he and I had to sneak around and plan in advance. I knew my parents were going to a political fundraiser dinner that night at the Worthington Hotel. The invitation had been on our fridge for weeks.”

  I pulled up the Internet on my phone and verified that there had, indeed, been a political fundraising event at the Worthington on the eighth. It was doubtful now that Dub had been Samuelson’s killer. But if not him, then who? And even if he hadn’t killed Samuelson, that didn’t mean he wasn’t the one who’d shot Mr. and Mrs. Prentiss.

  We thanked the girl for having the courage to talk with us.

  “If you find Dub,” she said, her lip quivering with emotion, “tell him I miss him. And tell him that … that everything is okay now.”

  Uh-oh.

  “Jenna,” I said, “did you and Dub—”

  Before I could even finish she looked down but nodded.

  “But you’re not—”

  She shook her head. “I thought I might be pregnant but I found out this morning that I’m not.”

  “You didn’t use protection?” If kids were going to do something stupid, they should at least be smart about it.

  “Dub had a condom, but…” She teared up again, hunched her shoulders, and shook her head.

  In other words, their raging teenage hormones had gotten the best of them. But I couldn’t fault them too much. It took quite a bit of restraint for me to resist Seth’s advances.

  Jenna opened her mouth as if to say something, then closed it again.

  “Jenna,” I asked. “Are you in contact with Dub?”

  “I was,” she admitted. “My mother took away my cell phone and laptop, but then Dub came to the school a few days ago and brought me one of those prepaid phones.”

  Hmm. Even though Dub had run away from home, he hadn’t run out on Jenna. That showed character, didn’t it? He seemed to have real feelings for the girl. Dub had never had anyone to hold on to. Or maybe I was giving him too much credit. Maybe Jenna was nothing more than a booty call. I supposed I couldn’t really be sure.

  “Can you show us the phone?” I asked.

  “My parents found it last night and took that away, too.”

  “What’s the number for Dub’s phone?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. He’d already put his number in the contacts list when he gave me the phone. I didn’t think to memorize it.”

  “Do you know where he bought the phones?” If so, we could try to track down his number and trace his phone.

  She shook her head.

  “Do you know where your parents put the phone they took from you?” If we could get her number, we could contact the provider and find out who’d called her phone.

  “Yes,” she said. “My dad stomped on it and then threw it in the trash in the kitchen.”

  “Can you get it for us, please?”

  She left the door open, returning shortly with a handful of phone bits. The tiny SIM card was shattered. It would be impossible to get any information fr
om it.

  “Should’ve known,” the detective said, sighing. Though it was likely hopeless, she held out a plastic evidence bag and Jenna dropped the pieces inside.

  “If you hear from Dub,” I told Jenna as we turned to go, “try to find out where he is and let us know, okay? If he’s innocent, we can help him.”

  And if he wasn’t, we could take one more killer off the streets.

  FIFTY-SIX

  IDITAROD

  Brigit

  It was snowing!

  While dogs didn’t like water much in its liquid form, turn it into frozen flakes and they’re all over it. While Zoe the cat watched from the kitchen window, Brigit ran back and forth all evening in the yard, leaving paw prints in the snow. She’d even rolled around on her back and made a dog angel.

  Seth had brought Blast over, too, and while the dogs frolicked, their meal tickets built a snow dog. Frankie helped them. It was only the size of a Chihuahua, but that was the best they could do given the limited supply of the white stuff.

  When the humans finally forced the dogs to come inside, Frankie set off for work. The others curled up in front of the fireplace, where three logs were burning. The dogs lay side by side on the rug Megan had bought to cover the wood floor. Zoe slinked up and joined them, taking a preferred spot closer to the fire. Cats. So arrogant. The humans snuggled on the couch with mugs of hot chocolate laced with something that smelled like peppermint and made Megan giggle a lot. Brigit was glad to hear her partner giggle. It had been a while.

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  ICE, ICE BABY

  Dub

  Dub wore three pairs of socks and had even put his jeans and T-shirt on under his sweats. They reeked of mildew, but what choice did he have? Still he shivered uncontrollably. He tried the key in the ignition again, even though he knew it was a waste of time. Either the van had an engine problem or the battery had frozen. Either way, he couldn’t get the motor started to run the heater.

  His bones ached from the cold and he could barely feel his fingers and toes. His skin was turning blue. All he had to do was shave his head, learn how to play drums, and he could join the Blue Man Group. No face paint needed.

  He grabbed his last remaining pair of clean underwear and slid them over his head, wearing them like a hat. He slid socks over his hands like mittens and hunkered down in his sleeping bag, curling up in a ball on top of the fridge in the cargo bay.

  The world was too quiet. It was weird, and kind of scary, too. The roads were too slick to drive on, so there was no traffic noise from Interstate 30. There was only the sound of the sleet accumulating on the van and Dub’s jagged breathing, which left puffs of steam hovering inside the van.

  “Fuck, it’s cold!”

  He slid farther down in the sleeping bag, pulling the end closed over his head. He might suffocate, but that would probably be better than freezing to death. He felt a strong urge to cry, but he was afraid the tears would freeze on his cheeks and give him frostbite.

  His breathing slowed, and slowed, and slowed some more, until finally the world turned black.

  * * *

  Dub woke early the next morning to an eerie gray glow. He peeked out of the sleeping bag to see the windows of the van covered in a sheet of ice so thick he couldn’t see through it. With the iced-over windows and the fridge taking up so much space in the van, he felt claustrophobic.

  He checked his phone. Still nothing from Jenna. He sent her another quick text. Miss you. Are you okay?

  He stared at the phone for a full minute, but no reply came.

  He slid out of the sleeping bag and crawled to the driver’s seat. He reached over, pulled up the manual lock, and turned the handle to open the door.

  It didn’t budge.

  He pushed on the door. Still nothing.

  He rocked back and forth in the seat. Maybe the motion would make the ice fall off the van.

  Nope.

  Nothing.

  This time when he tried to open the door, he put his whole body into it, slamming his shoulder against the door. It was useless. The entire van was coated in a thick sheet of ice.

  Dub was trapped inside his own little snow globe of horror.

  He threw his head back and laughed. “Fuck me!”

  He was trapped in ice, but his drinking water supply had dwindled to nothing. It was just as well. He needed the jug for other purposes now.

  When he was done, he slid back into his sleeping bag. He thought about things as he lay there. About his mother and her sick, warped relationship with Andro. About Jenna, and how much he cared about her. He hoped she wasn’t feeling ashamed about what they’d done, and he prayed she wasn’t pregnant. He wondered why she hadn’t texted him back. He wanted to see her, but how could he let Jenna see what he’d become? She’d believed in him. How could he tell her that he was homeless? That he was broke? That he’d looted a store? He had told her about the burglaries his father had made him go on, the drug buys, but the liquor store? That was all on Dub.

  He lay there for an hour or so, sometimes sleeping, sometimes daydreaming of Jenna, his room back at Wes and Trent’s place, a fire to warm his toes, when he began to hear cracking and dripping sounds.

  The world behind the ice had become brighter.

  North Texas was thawing out.

  Thank God.

  As he stared through the ice, watching it melt, watching the world get lighter and lighter, he made an important decision. He was going to turn himself in. What’s the worst they could do to him? He was still a juvenile. They couldn’t keep him in jail past the time he turned eighteen, right? Even if they could, prison couldn’t be any worse than living like this.

  Maybe he could somehow prove that he hadn’t been the one to shoot those people in Park Hill. He would tell the police about how Andro had taken his hoodie from him the night before, how Dub had been sleeping in his van the night of the shootings, about hearing the police dog sniffing around the doors. He still had the orange sticker the cop had put on his windshield. The date was written on it in black ink. That was evidence, right?

  Relief flooded through him. He feared what might happen, but at least now he had a plan. He slid the orange sticker into his wallet, rolled up his sleeping bag, and waited for the ice to release him.

  * * *

  It was midmorning by the time the ice had thawed enough for Dub to force the door open on the van. He climbed out, taking his sleeping bag with him, and walked to the nearest bus station. He planned to turn himself in, but first he had to go to his mother’s place and tell her a final good-bye. She couldn’t be a part of Dub’s life anymore.

  Dub had to do this. He needed … what did they call it? Oh, yeah. Closure.

  Dub didn’t worry about running into Andro at the apartment. He knew the drill. Any time Andro smacked Dub’s mother around, he’d disappear for a few weeks, give Katrina time to get over the physical pain and some of the emotional pain. The emotional pain never fully went away. But with time it dulled enough that she was willing to set it aside, especially if Andro showed up with meth.

  The bus arrived and Dub climbed on, raising his face to the warm air blowing from the heater. He sat down, putting the sleeping bag in the empty seat next to him.

  Two transfers and an hour later, he walked up to the door of his mother’s apartment, stuck his key in the lock, and jiggled it until the lock released. Click.

  He pushed the door open. “Mom? You home?”

  “She’s here,” hissed Andro as he pulled Dub down into a headlock again. “And so am I.”

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  SLIPPERY SLOPES

  Megan

  The streets had iced over last night, but as Texas weather was wont to do, it changed drastically this morning. The sun rose warm and bright, putting a quick end to the ice in the places it touched. The shady areas took longer, but between the sunshine and the sand trucks that were out and about, most of the major roads were safely passable. Good. I wasn’t in the mood to be dealing with t
raffic accidents.

  I found myself wondering where Wade had spent last night. Had he found an open church to hole up in? A homeless shelter? A twenty-four-hour diner? I also found myself wondering where the facts ended and the fiction began with Wade Chandler Mayhew. Was he a violent juvenile delinquent as his record and the evidence seemed to reflect and as his mother portrayed him? Or had her false testimony led to her son receiving harsher sentences than he deserved?

  I could only hope that someday the boy would be found and the facts would be ferreted out. Call me an idealist, but I still hoped for truth and justice.

  Brigit and I set out on patrol. As we cruised through the neighborhoods, we spotted the slushy remnants of yesterday evening’s snowmen. Scarves and carrot noses and charcoal eyes lay in yards, the snowmen they once graced having committed snowicide. You’re not alone, Frosty.

  My first call of the day involved a frozen pipe that had burst in a shopping center parking lot, creating a potential traffic hazard. I put out a semicircle of orange cones and directed cars around the area until a city works crew came and took over.

  My second call involved documenting property damage on a corner lot in the Colonial Country Club neighborhood. Someone had lost control of their car when driving last night and taken out a brick mailbox and a decorative fountain, leaving muddy tire ruts in the yard. The culprit failed to own up to his or her blunder, however, leaving the homeowner furious and facing a bill of a couple of thousand dollars to replace the damaged property. I took down notes for the report I’d complete later.

  I was starting to ponder lunch options when dispatch came on the radio, asking for an officer to respond to a call in the neighborhood just north of R. L. Paschal High School. A 9-1-1 call had come in, but the caller had hung up immediately after the dispatcher answered.

  I grabbed my mic. “Officer Luz and Brigit responding.”

  The call could have been a false alarm. Some people had the 9-1-1 emergency number programmed on speed dial and inadvertently hit the number on occasion. Other times, people thought they were having an emergency, but the situation resolved itself before their call was answered. I remember hearing of such a call last Easter, when a father had challenged his sons to see who could stuff the most marshmallow Peeps in their mouth. The father won with thirteen, but found himself suddenly unable to breathe with a baker’s dozen of fluffy yellow chicks lodged in his trachea. He managed to upchuck the chicks before the dispatcher got to the call.