Reed Ferguson 1-3

by Renee Pawlish

  “Whatever,” Marv snorted.

  “I had to find a Parson Russell Terriers,” Jack said.

  “Did you get the paperwork?” Marv said as he tugged at his bolo tie.

  Jack shook his head. “Too many people around.”

  “It’s okay,” Marv said. “We can forge them if we need to. When are we taking it?”

  “Tonight,” Jack said. “I don’t want to make another trip here.”

  They were going to steal the dog tonight! My mind raced. Should I follow them or stay with the dog they were after?

  Jack glanced over his shoulder and eyed me suspiciously. I backed away as Marv turned and threw me a hard look as well.

  I hurried back to Fuji’s crate but I kept checking back, not looking directly at them, so they wouldn’t sense my eyes on them. They watched the action in the ring for a few minutes and then proceeded back through the grooming area.

  I made a quick decision to follow them. They hurried out of the complex and into the parking lot. I stayed back, keeping a row of vehicles between us. They strolled to a dark blue 4-door Dodge Ram truck at the far end of the lot. It sure looked like the one that had tried to run me over…twice. Except, I thought, wasn’t the truck black? It was dark, so I must’ve been wrong.

  I raced back to my 4-Runner and waited. The distinct rumble of the truck’s diesel engine announced their approach. Jack was driving. Marv drank from a coffee mug. I sunk down in my seat until they passed by. Then I pulled in behind them.

  A bit of luck had come my way. Now I needed to catch the thieves in the act of stealing the dog and I could turn them in.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The truck drove out of the parking lot and onto 46th Avenue. The information I’d memorized said the dog they were after was a male named Aesop. His owners, Matt and Leslie Johnson, lived in the Stapleton neighborhood, northeast of downtown Denver. As I followed the truck, I punched the address into the GPS on my phone. The Johnsons lived off Quebec Street, which meant Jack and Marv should head east on I-70. Sure enough, that’s exactly what they did. I let a car slip in front of me and then I merged onto the three-lane interstate. I let in a couple more cars between the truck and me, keeping me a safe distance behind the truck. If they were watching for a tail, it would be harder to notice me.

  Traffic moved sluggishly so I had a little time to think. I couldn’t afford to let these guys slip through my hands again. If I could get pictures of them actually stealing Aesop, I’d have concrete evidence to take to the police. After two failures, I had to make this time count.

  We continued east for a couple more miles and the truck exited onto Quebec, but the men threw me a curve because they turned north.

  “That doesn’t make sense,” I muttered. “The Johnson’s house should be somewhere south of here.”

  I turned and stayed with the truck. I was closing the gap between us when the traffic light ahead changed to yellow, then red. The truck shot forward and ran through the red light. I was two cars back and had to slam on my brakes so I wouldn’t rear-end the car in front of me.

  “Damn it!” I yelled.

  The truck vanished in the mass of cars up the road. I fumed as cross traffic crawled through the intersection. The light finally turned green. I zipped around the car in front of me and floored the gas pedal. But it was useless. The truck was nowhere in sight.

  I punched the steering wheel as I pulled into a gas station. Since I’d lost the truck, the only thing I could think to do was find the Johnson house and see if Jack and Marv showed up.

  I reset the GPS and waited for the disembodied female voice to give me instructions. I got back onto Quebec, drove south, and was soon in the Stapleton neighborhood. It was a relatively new area, with both single-family homes and huge McMansions. The GPS voice directed me to Dayton Street. The Johnsons lived in a two-story, brick-and-siding house that backed up to the 80-acre Central Park. I passed the house, swung a U-turn and parked down the street. I grabbed binoculars from my glove box and surveyed the Johnson home.

  A long front porch, second story balcony, and a three-car garage were all I could see – nothing out of the ordinary. A few recently-planted trees stretched their barren limbs to the darkening sky. I put the binoculars away and got out of the 4-Runner. I crossed the street and walked down the empty block. Directly across from the Johnsons, I stopped, bent down and pretended to tie my shoe as I scanned the place.

  A six foot high wood fence ran between the houses on each side of the Johnson house. The south side fence had a gate to the backyard.

  A Mercedes drove by. I waited until it turned into a driveway at the end of the block and disappeared into the garage. Then I stood up and jogged across the street.

  I was debating what to do when the drone of a diesel engine cut through the silence. I had no doubt it was Jack’s truck. I dashed across the lawn and dove behind some evergreen bushes that grew alongside the house next door to the Johnsons. The blue truck stopped a few houses up the street. Jack’s bald dome shone through the windshield.

  Jack and Marv watched the house for a moment, then pulled wrapped food out of bags. That explained the detour. They’d gone to get dinner. My stomach growled and I wished I’d had time to do the same.

  I reached for my camera and stopped. Damn! What a rookie mistake, I thought. Now I needed to get back to my car and get my camera. But how? It wouldn’t be prudent to stroll out from behind the bushes and wave at Marv and Jack. I turned and eyed the fence. It seemed my only option.

  I slid along the side of the house and up to the fence. A space between it and the house offered a tiny foothold. I stared at the truck. The men were occupied with their dinner. It was now or never. I stood up, grabbed the top of the fence, shoved my shoe in the foothold space and heaved myself upward. I grunted while perched atop the fence for a second and then my momentum carried me over. I landed in a heap on the other side. I rolled into a crouch, then scrambled back to the fence, where I squinted at the truck through a crack in the fence. The men continued to eat, still oblivious to my presence.

  I stood up, brushed myself off, and ran through the back yard, where there was another fence to get into the adjacent yard. Once over it, I hurried past the backside of the house. Apparently no one was home, or they weren’t looking into their back yard, because I wasn’t spotted. A gate on the side of the house beckoned. I pumped a fist as I quietly let myself out the gate, but my elation turned to chagrin. In my haste, I had miscounted houses. The 4-Runner was parked down one more house from where I was. Should I risk going through another back yard, where I might be seen? Or run for the 4-Runner? I cursed silently.

  Then a large Cadillac Escalade drove up the road. I waited until it blocked the view of Jack’s truck and I ran for all I was worth across the front yard. I ducked behind the 4-Runner and peered around the back end. Apparently Jack and his companion weren’t concerned about anything but their food for they still hadn’t noticed me.

  I unlocked the back window of the 4-Runner and opened it just enough to slip inside. I crawled into the back seat, careful to keep my head below the dash level. Darkness was falling so I knew they wouldn’t see me. My camera bag sat on the passenger seat. I propped myself between the front seats, took my camera from the bag and zoomed in on the truck. While there was still a semblance of light, I clicked a couple of nice clear shots of the truck’s license plate.

  Jack and Marv had finished their take-out and were hunkered down in their seats so they wouldn’t be spotted. It was almost six p.m. when a white Chevy Tahoe pulled into the Johnsons’ driveway and parked. A tiny woman in a red dress – Leslie Johnson I assumed – emerged from the passenger side, opened the back door and then a small dog with long, silky white fur hopped out, wagging his tail. A really tall man, who I assumed was Matt Johnson, got out of the driver’s side. He reached for Leslie’s hand and they strolled through the garage and into the house, little Aesop leading the way.

  The dognappers didn’t wait long. They must�
��ve turned off the dome light on the truck because I didn’t notice it at all, just the sudden shadow of Marv moving past the front of the truck. He trotted across the street and right to the back gate. I zoomed in with the camera and snapped pictures of him waiting at the gate. The light was fading fast but I could still see what Marv was doing.

  I kept shooting as Marv opened the gate and bent down, holding something in his hand.

  “A treat,” I muttered. “What dog can resist?”

  Sure enough, a couple of seconds later, Marv reached out with both hands and grabbed the terrier. The dog let out a yip and then Marv grabbed his muzzle.

  It made perfect sense. What do most dog owners do when they first bring their dog home? Let it outside to pee. Like clockwork, Aesop must have been put outside to do his business. And the dognappers were waiting.

  I snapped more shots of Marv clutching the dog, holding his muzzle shut, and racing back to the truck. The pictures weren’t illuminated enough to show Marv’s face, but definitely clear enough to show what he’d done and to capture the license plate. He opened the back door and threw the dog in. Then he hopped in the front. The pictures ought to be enough to get them in big trouble.

  Jack already had the truck started, but he was smart. He didn’t peel out and draw attention to himself. Instead, he pulled forward and drove slowly away from the house with his headlights off.

  I ducked down as they passed me. I set the camera on the passenger seat, scrambled up front and started the car. I glanced in the rear view mirror and saw the truck turn at the corner. Suddenly I wasn’t so sure the pictures would be enough evidence. And what if the dognappers switched license plates? There would be no way to find them. I made a quick decision to follow them. I whipped a U-turn, and copying Jack, left my headlights off.

  The truck was up ahead on MLK Boulevard. I let cars slip in and out in front of me so as not to be noticed, but was able to keep the truck in sight. And so far, I hadn’t gotten caught at a red light.

  The truck turned north on Havana and soon came to I-70, where it headed east. As I drove, I congratulated myself on my good fortune. I had pictures of the dognappers committing their crime, and soon I’d know where they lived. A quick call to the police to report who had stolen the Johnson’s dog and it would be case closed.

  But this wasn’t Ace Ventura, Pet Detective, with a happy ending. It was Humphrey Bogart in High Sierra, where the dog’s a bad omen.

  A really bad omen.

  CHAPTER NINE

  We passed Peña Boulevard and E-470. Then, we neared a road that I was all-too familiar with and a sense of déjà vu flittered through me. On my very first case, a sinister group had brought me out here into the eastern plains, threatened me, and then left me stranded. I’d had to trek back to the highway and hitch a ride to a gas station where I phoned the Goofball Brothers for a ride.

  My cell phone rang and I jumped.

  “What happened to you?” Gail asked. “I came back from the competition and you were gone. Fuji won!”

  “That’s great, Gail,” I said. “But I need you to do me a favor.”

  “What’s wrong?” She’d gone from elated to concerned in half a second.

  “I’m following the dognappers now –”

  “What? How’d you find them?” she interrupted.

  “They found an address on some paperwork on one of the dog crates. I followed them and actually got pictures of them stealing a dog.”

  “Reed! Why didn’t you call the police before they took the dog?”

  “The police can’t do anything before the crime occurs,” I said. “I’m a little worried that the photos won’t be clear enough so I’m following them home. Once I know where they live, I’ll call the police.”

  “But that poor dog,” Gail said.

  “I need you to call the owners and let them know what’s going on. I’ve got their name and address. You’ll have to look up the phone number.”

  “Wait, let me get a piece of paper.” I counted a beat. “Okay,” Gail said.

  I rattled off the information. “Tell the Johnsons I’ll get their dog back,” I said.

  “I will. Reed, be careful.”

  “I will. I’ll call you later and let you know what happens.”

  I hung up and focused on the road. The truck stayed at a steady 75, its two red tail lights in the distance. I plugged in a CD and listened to The Smiths’ “Shoplifters of the World Unite”. Appropriate since I was pursuing thieves. We continued east through the town of Watkins.

  “Where in the hell are we headed?” I said aloud, mimicking the drunk from the strip mall. The miles flew by. We passed through Strasburg, Byers, and Peoria. I glanced down at the gas gauge. It hovered near ‘E’.

  “We better get somewhere soon,” I grumbled. My stomach growled.

  “Jack,” I said to the truck. “I’ll bet you stopped for food and gas. I should’ve done the same.”

  Amidst my complaining, the gas gauge inched even lower. I saw a sign saying Deer Trail was five miles ahead. And then it happened. The 4-Runner died. The power steering quit working and I cranked hard on the wheel, edging the car to the side of the highway.

  “No, no no!” I yelled.

  The 4-Runner rolled to a stop on the shoulder as I watched the truck’s tail lights vanish. I elbowed the car door in anger, then cursed the pain in my elbow. I stared into the darkness, fuming.

  “Well,” I finally sighed. “I guess I’ll get some exercise.”

  I continued to curse my luck as I donned gloves and zipped up my coat. I hid the camera bag on the floor of the backseat, got out of the 4-Runner, locked it, and trudged down the highway.

  Cars and semis zoomed by, whipping up the frigid February air. I tucked my chin into my coat and began jogging. I ran for what I estimated to be a mile before my feet began to hurt. I longed for a good pair of sneakers, rather than my wingtips. I walked on and raised a thumb but no one stopped.

  A little over an hour later, Deer Trail came into view. I spotted a Phillips 66 sign from a distance, so I headed there. I trudged down the exit ramp, under the highway and onto Cedar Street. I felt a bit like I’d been transported to a ghost town. A few dilapidated and abandoned buildings lined the street and I didn’t run into a soul. I walked a block farther and around the corner onto 7th Avenue. After that long trek, I finally entered the Phillips 66 convenience store, my mind on food. I made a beeline for the back where I spied grilled hotdogs. Good, food that was hot. And quick.

  As I was reaching in for a hot dog, I heard the front door open. I glanced over my shoulder and froze as Jack and Marv entered the store.

  “Hey Ben, how ya doin’?” Jack said to the clerk behind the counter.

  “Not bad,” Ben said.

  I ducked down and listened.

  “We been over at the Brick Oven eatin’ some pizza,” Marv said.

  “And a beer I’ll bet.” I detected the grin in Ben’s tone of voice.

  “You going to help us out tomorrow?” Jack asked Ben.

  “Sure,” Ben said. “I work in the morning, but I can come over later.”

  I tiptoed to the end of an aisle and looked out the window. Jack’s truck was parked right next to the store. Jack and Marv were still chatting with Ben. I looked around. A hallway led to restrooms, so I darted down the hall. At the end of the hall was another door. I stole up to it and eased the door open. Inside was small office with a metal desk, a rolling chair, boxes stacked on one another, and, very conveniently, a back door. I crossed the office in two strides, left through the door and emerged into a small parking lot. I hustled past a dumpster and along the side of the store. At the corner, I stopped and checked around the front. The truck sat about twenty feet away, parallel with the building, its rear end to me. It was empty.

  I was cold and tired, and I’d gotten more than I bargained for. I made a quick decision. It was time to get the dog and go home. I’d turn in the pictures and let the police handle things from there.

/>   Then another thought occurred to me. If I could get Aesop from the truck, Jack and Marv would obviously notice she was missing. Could I stay hidden and keep the dog quiet until I could call for help? It was a chance I would have to take.

  On the other side of the truck were the pumps. A woman stood by a Lexus, filling up the car, so I needed to stay on this side, closest to the store. Dashing to the back end of the truck, I looked through the store window. Marv was still up at the counter, talking to Ben. But where was Jack? I suddenly spied him as he strolled down the back aisle of the store. His head was down, studying the assortment of chips. Then his head started up. In a second or two he would be gazing through the window right at me.

  I grabbed the side of the truck and hauled myself into the truck bed. Oh dear Lord, I thought. Now what?

  “We’ll see you tomorrow then,” Marv called out as he exited the store.

  I pressed myself against the side wall of the truck bed and held my breath.

  “He can help clean things up,” Jack said.

  “Uh-huh,” Marv mumbled.

  The truck rocked as the men got into it. The diesel engine rumbled to life. The truck drove through the lot and turned right onto 7th Avenue. I tried to watch for street signs so I could keep track of where we were going. Otherwise I didn’t know how I could find my way back. The wind whipped around me, cutting right through my coat.

  Seventh Avenue curved to the north. We turned onto a dirt road. I wasn’t sure but I thought it said 34. We probably drove for only a few miles but in the frigid cold it seemed like a lot longer. I wasn’t sure what my plan would be once we stopped, but I hoped it would be soon, as I had done just about enough walking for one night.

  I carefully raised my head and looked over the side of the truck bed. Barren fields flashed by on either side of us, the moonlight shimmering off patches of snow and ice. The few lights of Deer Trail shrunk in the distance, the Phillips 66 sign a lone beacon in the blackness.