by R. R. Irvine
As soon as they got out of the station wagon, the trailer door opened. The man who emerged looked to be in his early twenties, a younger, thinner version of the sheriff, but with plenty of muscle showing in his forearms and chest, emphasized by a skintight T-shirt. With him was an even younger girl, still a teenager, Manwaring guessed, whose flushed face said she was embarrassed by the unexpected arrival of strangers. Her bleached jeans and tie-dyed blouse showed off a lush figure.
While Manwaring was staring at her, Nichols said, “We’re engaged, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
Manwaring extended his hands, palms up, a gesture of conciliation. “Congratulations. You’re a lucky man. You, too, Miss
“Amy Tuttle,” she said, blushing even more. “Don’t mind Jay. He’s a bit touchy, what with people picking at us ever since I left Defiance.”
“When was that?” Manwaring asked.
“About a month ago.”
“You’re lucky to be alive.”
“I owe my life to Jay.” When she took his hand, he looked self-conscious. “He convinced me there wasn’t any future out there.”
“We just came from Defiance,” Manwaring said. “We found a dog.”
She caught her breath. “I’d forgotten about them, the poor things. We had five.”
“This one is black and white and looks like a border collie.”
“That would be Jess.” She looked up at her fiancé. “Someone named him after the sheriff, because he growled all the time but never bit.”
“The dog we found had been shot,” Manwaring said. “Do you have any idea who might do something like that?”
Amy started to answer, but Jay beat her to it. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll leave things like that to my brother.”
“I’m on my way to see him now, to report a shooting and demand an investigation.”
Larsen held up his hands. “I’m out of this, Manwaring, as of now. You can keep your money.” He backed toward the Subaru and began unloading the camera equipment onto the damp ground.
“You can’t leave us here,” Manwaring said.
“Ask them for a ride.”
“We don’t have a car,” the girl said.
“For Christ’s sake,” Larsen said. “I’ll drive you back to the motel, but that’s it.”
24
NO ONE said a word all the way back to the motel. There, Holland shrugged off Manwaring’s offer of help with the camera gear and carried it inside himself. Manwaring joined him as soon as he paid off Larsen.
“All right, Lew,” Manwaring said, “out with it.”
Silently Holland stripped off his muddy clothes, lay back on his twin bed, and folded his hands under his head.
“What do you want, an apology for getting you into this mess?”
“You don’t want to hear it,” Holland said.
“Maybe you’re right, but I’m listening.”
“You’re obsessing about the dog. I can see the wheels going around inside your head. One shot dog equals a conspiracy.”
“How do you think Buttons got on that island?”
“The dog’s name is Jess.”
“You heard that girl, Amy,” Manwaring said. “It’s a Defiance dog, and its owners are dead. If I adopt it—”
“You obsess the same way about Vicki and where’s that gotten you?”
“Did I ever tell you about Buttons?” Manwaring said, knowing he had.
Holland sighed. “Whatever you name it, you can’t take it back to your apartment in L.A. In the first place, your landlord wouldn’t like it. In the second, you’re not home enough to take care of him.”
Manwaring knew Holland was right, but that didn’t make him feel any better.
“You’d better get dressed again so we can report the shooting to the sheriff.”
Holland shook his head. “I’m not going anywhere without a hot shower.”
Manwaring sighed and reached for the phone. When he told the sheriff what had happened to the dog, Nichols said, “We get that kind of thing all the time. Kids raising hell or an overenthusiastic hunter. You wouldn’t believe what they shoot in the woods around here during hunting season. Anything that moves, and I mean anything.”
“We found him on Penance Island,” Manwaring said. “That means he escaped the fire by swimming out there, but that doesn’t explain how he got shot.”
“I’ve got bodies to identify and next of kin to notify. I don’t need people like you and Mad Grady O’Dell making things worse. The bastard was here not an hour ago, spouting his usual poetry crap about barking dogs, and talking about buying hollow-point, killer ammunition for his rifle, and God knows what. Now stay off my back before I arrest the both of you for obstructing justice.”
“What’s O’Dell’s number?”
“The crazy old fart doesn’t have a phone.”
25
MANWARING CALLED Stacie Wagstaff and pleaded his case. In the end, she agreed to loan him what she called her dog car, a twenty-year-old pickup truck that had its driver’s door wired shut because of rusted-out hinges. The catch was that he’d have to come out and get it himself, since she wasn’t leaving her sick patient.
Manwaring left Holland to his shower and started walking in the twilight. An hour later he felt exhausted as he climbed into the veterinarian’s truck and headed for O’Dell’s. He had trouble following Stacie’s directions in the dark. The turnoff to O’Dell’s had no marker, no sign that said Pitchstone Road. He slowed to the point of stalling. She’d warned him to be careful once he left Pitchstone. “After that,” she said, “the turnoff splits, Defiance to the left, O’Dell to the right.”
He leaned over the steering wheel until his forehead touched the windshield. The right-hand turnoff led to a road that was one switchback after another. Because of that, the pickup’s headlights never had a chance to reveal more than twenty or thirty yards of dirt track, plus blackened trees on one side of the road, green survivors on the other. Apparently Pitchstone had acted as a natural firebreak.
The same burn pattern continued into the two-acre clearing where O’Dell’s cabin stood in darkness. Even the grass had been scorched on one side.
Remembering O’Dell’s threat to buy high-powered ammunition, Manwaring honked to announce his presence. A porch light came on, but the log cabin’s small windows remained dark. Manwaring parked, killed the engine, but left the headlights on before getting out slowly and moving in front of the lights to show himself.
After a moment O’Dell came out, a heavy rifle cradled in his arms.
“You needn’t have honked,” he said. “I heard you coming as soon as you turned off Pitchstone. You’d better kill your lights before your battery runs down.”
Once Manwaring did as asked, O’Dell escorted him inside, closing the door and locking it before turning on the lights. The sudden glare blinded Manwaring. When his eyes adjusted, he found himself facing a ladderlike stairway that led to the sleeping loft. The free-standing steps also served to cut the room in half, living room on one side, kitchen on the other.
Instead of the rustic furniture Manwaring had been expecting, the cabin was furnished with brightly upholstered wicker chairs and a red leather sofa bracketed by glass-topped end tables on which stood matching white ceramic lamps. The walls were covered with bookcases filled to overflowing.
O’Dell pointed his rifle at the sofa.
Manwaring sat down. “That’s a damned big gun.”
“How did I know the dogs wouldn’t start barking again tonight?” O’Dell tilted his head to one side as if he could hear them already.
“That’s what I’d like to talk to you about.”
Nodding, O’Dell leaned the weapon against the wall next to a wicker dog bed that contained a blue denim mattress. A rawhide chew-bone and a rubber toy shaped like a fire hydrant lay on the mattress as if momentarily abandoned.
O’Dell shed his jacket and hung it on a wooden peg above the bed. “Tell me, Mr. Manwaring,
what do you know about the dogs I heard?”
“Only what your poetry told me.”
O’Dell moved around the staircase and into the kitchen area, where he poured steaming coffee into two metal mugs, which he carried to the end tables before joining Manwaring on the sofa.
“Most of my good poetry is lost forever, because I don’t write it down when I’m drinking.”
“You don’t remember reciting to me about dogs?”
“I’m always talking about dogs. I’ve had them all my life, setters mostly. I lost Gilly, my Irish, a couple of months back.” He rubbed a hand across his face. “I can still smell him.”
“Is he the one you were writing about?” Manwaring said, disappointed.
“If I wasn’t so damned sober right now, I might tell you. But I haven’t had a drink all day, not since I heard about you finding that dog out there on Penance Island.”
“Jesus,” Manwaring said. “That news got around fast.”
“I called Doc Wagstaff and offered to adopt him, but she tells me you beat me to it.”
Manwaring glanced at the empty bed. “His name is Jess, and I can see he’d be better off here. All I have is an apartment in Los Angeles.”
“I’ve got plenty of room for him to run. And don’t worry. I won’t let him out of my sight until it’s safe to roam again.”
“What are you afraid of?”
“That’s the trouble, isn’t it? I don’t know for sure. Neither do you. We’re certain of one thing only, that someone shot the dog.”
“When I heard you recite I thought you had something more definite in mind.”
“Did you like my poem?”
“Very much.”
O’Dell took a sip of coffee and sighed. “I guess I could try getting drunk.”
Manwaring was about to go searching for liquor when O’Dell held a finger to his lips, signaling for silence, then went to the door and pressed his ear against it. Manwaring listened too, straining, but heard nothing.
“I thought there was something. Like a scratching at the door. The sound my Gilly used to make when he wanted to come in.” O’Dell shrugged and returned to the sofa. He leaned back and smiled. “It will be good to have a dog again.”
Manwaring took a deep breath; he, too, smelled dog. Suddenly he had the feeling that if he closed his eyes Buttons would be there beside him, waiting patiently to be scratched.
“I listen to words inside my head,” O’Dell said. “I used to hear them all the time. Now it takes alcohol to bring them to life. Sometimes, when I remember to write them down, the words spook me in the sober light of day.”
Manwaring closed his eyes.
“I remember the dogs, though, no dream, not poetic license, but real enough.”
Manwaring opened his eyes. The space beside his chair was empty. He grasped his coffee cup, taking comfort from its warmth. The liquid was as bitter as his memories.
O’Dell said, “I heard the dogs barking that morning before the fire. I came out of sleep in a nightmare sweat, not knowing what time it was, only that it was dark and that my subconscious had begun writing.
“Ever since I’ve been wondering what I heard that night. Was it a nightmare or was it real? I even called Ned Evans, who was on lookout duty for the State Fire Service. He spotted the fire. That was just before seven A.M., he told me. Only I’d heard the dogs barking long before that, two hours at least.”
Manwaring held on to the cup to keep from reaching for a phantom Buttons.
“The wind was blowing like a demon that morning,” O’Dell went on, “carrying the sound of barking down the valley from Defiance. They would have barked at the flames, that’s for sure. But I ask you: What the hell were they barking at before the fire started?”
“Maybe they were spooked by wild animals.”
“Until I find out for sure, I’m keeping my four-shot .30-.06 handy.”
Manwaring toyed with his cup, sorting through his thoughts. Finally, he said, “If I read you right, you’re thinking the same thing I am, that someone started that fire deliberately. That the dogs heard that someone and were barking at him.”
“I never realized things had gone that far between Ellsworth and Defiance. Hatred yes, a little name-calling, but not killing.”
“It only takes one lunatic,” Manwaring said. “If you had to guess, who’d be your first choice?”
“I wouldn’t want to speculate in front of a journalist.”
“Do you have someone in mind?”
O’Dell only smiled.
“A whole town is gone,” Manwaring reminded him.
“Even if someone set the fire, what happened to Defiance has to be an accident. The flames got out of hand, that’s all. It couldn’t have been deliberate murder.”
“And Jess? Was that an accident?”
O’Dell sighed. “I don’t know what I’d have done if someone shot my Gilly.” He retrieved his rifle and opened the front door, an obvious invitation for Manwaring to leave.
“You said something about hatred and name-calling. Give me any names you have in mind and I’ll do the dirty work.”
O’Dell pointed the rifle outside. “When I find proof about the barking dogs, I’ll tell the sheriff.”
Manwaring moved out onto the porch. The overhead bulb blinded him to everything but the light patterns cast into the night from the open doorway and windows.
Beside him, O’Dell grunted and dropped the .30-.06 onto the floorboards. By the time Manwaring turned, O’Dell had fallen to his knees. Manwaring grabbed for him but missed as the man slid headfirst onto the planking. Only when Manwaring rolled him over was the blood apparent, a splatter in the center of O’Dell’s chest. His eyes were staring.
Manwaring lunged across the twitching body to grab the rifle. As he did so, a bullet sang past his ear and thudded into the log wall behind him.
His fingers found the trigger. He aimed into the night and pulled. Nothing.
Jesus, the safety catch. Where the hell was it?
Manwaring flattened himself behind O’Dell’s dead body, conscious that the porch light made him a perfect target.
Something clicked under his forefinger. The rifle went off, deafening him. Four shots, O’Dell had said. Manwaring fired again. Two to go, two before he was a sitting duck.
Shoot out the porch light, he told himself, then countermanded the thought. That would leave him with only one shot left. And what if he missed the light?
Another bullet struck O’Dell’s body. The sound and shock of impact made Manwaring fire wildly, once, twice, until the ammunition was gone.
In the silence that followed, he knew he had to move. There were only two choices, back into the house or to the pickup truck. The house, he decided, would be a trap if he couldn’t, find more ammunition.
He rolled away from the body, lurched to his feet and swung the rifle at the exposed light bulb, shattering it. Half blinded by the afterburn, he stumbled off the porch and dived behind the truck. He was reaching for the passenger-side door handle when he saw the flat tires.
Without hesitation, he ran back to the cabin, lunging across the threshold and slamming the door behind him. Still in motion, he swiped at the light switch and plunged the room into darkness.
Where was the phone? Jesus Christ. O’Dell didn’t have one. The sheriff had said so.
Find the ammunition then. But where? The crammed bookshelves came to mind, but that seemed like a hopeless task. The only cupboards he recalled were in the kitchen. He felt his way in that direction and banged his shins against the bottom step of the staircase.
Shit. Searching in the dark was hopeless. So stay by the door and use the rifle as a club if someone tries to come in, he thought. He felt his way back to where he’d started, found the door bolt, and threw it. Now, by God, the killer would have to make some serious noise. Or was there a back door? He closed his eyes momentarily, saw light flashes but no memory of a second entrance. That still left the windows to worry about.
He crept to one of the openings and looked out. There was enough moonlight to see all the way to the tree line. Nothing moved within his limited field of vision. He eased across the room to the other window. The view was the same, peaceful as far as the trees.
Feeling suddenly exhausted, Manwaring fetched one of the wicker chairs and placed it beside the door, next to the dog bed. He settled onto the cushion, conscious of the smell of cedar shavings from the dog mattress, and balanced the empty rifle across his knees.
He jumped, his heart thudding, when O’Dell’s refrigerator kicked in. As soon as his breathing returned to normal, he tried to read the face of his glow-in-the-dark watch. The damned numerals seemed to have run out of juice.
Think, for God’s sake. He’d arrived about eight, so it couldn’t be much after nine now. That meant the entire night still lay ahead.
He shook his head, trying to clear away the fear. The movement caused the wicker chair to creak ominously. To keep himself occupied, he began mentally counting off seconds. At three hundred he ran out of steam and tried thinking about Vicki instead. When his thoughts turned erotic, he eased to his feet, escaping the chair with a single creak, and leaned against the wall. He stood there for what seemed like hours, until his aching legs began to cramp.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glow coming from the kitchen area and moved toward it. Halfway there, he realized it was coming from the gas stove’s pilot light.
He used the beacon to read his watch. Jesus. It was only 9:30 and already he was exhausted. Did the killer feel the same way, or was he used to waiting? Maybe time was passing slowly for him, too. Maybe he was waiting for daylight to make his move.
Manwaring shook his head. For all the killer knew, Manwaring had found more ammunition by now.
Manwaring turned the gas flame on high, giving himself light enough to search the kitchen drawers and cupboards. When he failed to find ammunition, he switched on the second burner. The blue light revealed no additional hiding places.
Where would I keep the bullets? he asked himself. In Los Angeles, he had a pistol by his bedside, like damn near everyone else in town.