Two Good Dogs
Page 31
Another tree, and another. The pinpoint of light is higher than she is, and Cody realizes that she’s descending the hillside, that she’s worked her way to Black Molly’s side of the hill. The half-moon has risen, and although its light is muted, nothing like the strong light of the full moon, Cody can see not just the darker shapes of the tree, but also the intermediary branches and the lichen-covered humps of boulders strewn by the volatile upheaval of ancient geology. Suddenly, she knows where in this forest she is.
It blends in with the brambles and deadfall of storm-wrecked trees—the fairy house, the shelter Molly built, where they came so often to share their contraband. You have to know that it’s there to see it. Cody crawls under the hodgepodge of beech and pine branches, tucks her knees to her chest, and prays that Johnny doesn’t recognize the shelter as anything other than a pile of branches. Not a bolt-hole. She looks up, and through the porous roof of Molly’s play fort she can see the pinpoint of light as Johnny descends the slope. She hears a mutter of cursing as he stumbles, slips a little. The flashlight’s bright spot reminds her of that tool the optician uses to examine her eyes. Cody closes her eyes, afraid that they will reflect his light like an animal’s.
“Cody. Cody. You come to me, or your mother dies first.”
Her mother. She’s got to get back and warn Skye. There’s no more hiding this secret.
* * *
It’s much later than I intended when we get back home. In the backseat is the triptych, safe, not damaged, although Adam had suggested that I could take a box cutter to it if I felt I wanted to. He’s given it to me. A present, he says, for kindness and going with him to the event. I’m out of practice, and have no witty reply. I don’t even pretend to refuse the gift. I tell him maybe I’ll hang it on that blank wall in his cottage.
He walks me to my cottage, which is totally dark. Cody has forgotten to turn on the porch light, or maybe deliberately chosen not to. He waits to see if she’s also locked the door against me, but it’s open. I flip on the light. “Well, thank you.” I mean for the evening away from here, for listening to my sorry story about Cody’s transgression against Mingo, for buying the painting.
Adam leans in and kisses me. Touches my face. Bids me good night.
“Wait. Would you like to come in?” It’s not all that late. Then I worry that I’ve become one of those women he’s here avoiding. “I can offer coffee.”
Adam smiles, nods. “Let me go let the boys out. Why don’t you come to my place. We can have a nightcap.”
“Okay, and at the risk of sounding like a bad B movie, I am going to get out of this outfit and into something way more comfortable. And check on Cody.”
Except that Cody isn’t there. And neither are the dogs.
* * *
Dawg and I both freeze in mid-step. We’re dogs, so we don’t look at each other to corroborate our impressions. We both know what that whistle means. Back here. Judging from the faintness of the sound, we’ve gotten a bit farther afield than we’ve ever done before. But the lure of night life has been intoxicating to us. We’ve run to ground moles and voles and even a mouse or two. Dawg came closest to achieving capture, but the truth is, neither one of us actually would know what to do with a mouse in the mouth.
Game’s up. The whistling continues, and I know that my stellar reputation for obedience is in jeopardy. Dawg is scratching, his hind leg going at it and his chin in the air, his jowls stretched back in a weird show of ecstasy. I’ll give him a moment; then we head home. I put my nose to the air, suck in a snootful of luscious night air. And that’s when my ears pick up on another sound, and my hackles go up.
* * *
“I’m losing my patience, little girl. Show yourself, or you’ll be an orphan.” As if to illustrate his point, Johnny casts one last sweep of his flashlight, coming within twenty feet of Cody’s hiding place. He turns around and starts up the hill, pauses. “Don’t think I won’t find you wherever they put you. An orphanage, maybe a foster home? Your grandmother’s? Whatever, no matter to me. I found you before and I’ll find you again. In the meantime, bye-bye Mommy.”
Cody can’t hold back the involuntary sob, and he hears it. Johnny grabs fistfuls of branches, tearing away the hiding place, reaching in and grabbing Cody by the arm. He slaps her, twists her arms around, clutching both wrists in his one hand, wrenching her to her feet. “I’m done here.” He pulls his gun out of its holster, frog-marches Cody a few feet, then presses on her wrists until she drops to her knees.
Cody screams. And screams. Terror deafens her even to the sound of her own voice pleading for her life. She feels the muzzle of the gun press against the back of her neck right in the place her mother used to call her “sweet spot,” and would then kiss it. Mommy will be her last word.
* * *
I had never before set teeth to human, but I had no hesitation in doing so and doing it with the same ferocity I once used in the pit, in the time before I knew peace. Dawg was beside me, doing the same. We knew the right places to subdue, the right places to make this a win that would take this opponent out of the pit forever. I could hear the girl’s screaming, encouraging us, inciting us to further leave our marks on this singularly dangerous human being. There was also screaming coming from him, the tongue language clear: Get them off me! As I bit deeper and deeper into his forearm, Dawg stood on his chest, threatening, but not quite ready to go in for the kill. Behind us, the girl, Cody, wept, and even over the pungent scent of blood, I could smell the agony of her fear. At that moment, I understood Adam much better. The anger and rage that he struggled so to keep, with my help, under control; I suddenly understood what anger is. I had never been angry at my canine opponents all those years ago in the fight ring, but this time I felt a rage that reddened my vision. This stinking man would hurt this girl of whom I had grown fond. I would not have it. Dawg pushed his face into the face of the man on the ground, and I knew that he, my dear companion, felt exactly as I did.
* * *
Johnny’s phone, the flashlight app still on, is on the ground, well out of his reach, as is the gun. Cody watches as the dogs keep him from moving, from escaping. In fact, he is very still, but she can see the life in his eyes, the fear that these dogs, arriving out of nowhere, will tear him limb from limb.
Cody picks up both the gun and the phone. Holding the weapon’s muzzle down, she speaks to the dogs. “Don’t let him up. Good dogs.” She thumbs 911 into the phone.
EPILOGUE
I feel the weight of another human body. Cody has climbed into my bed, pressing herself up against me as if she were a much smaller child. I roll over to wrap an arm over her, brush her hair away from her face. I feel the moisture under my fingers. “It’s all right; it’s over.”
What Cody has been enduring is beyond belief. The ultimate in a parent’s inventory of things to fear for her child. Made to keep a secret so heinous that it nearly destroyed our relationship. A secret that nearly cost her her life.
“Mommy?”
I love hearing that babyish name once more. “What, honey?”
“I don’t feel relieved. I still feel like I have to lie.”
“That will pass. By tomorrow even. It’s like you’ve been wearing a cast, and now that it’s gone, you still feel it.”
“What if he gets out on bail?”
“He won’t.” I don’t know that for sure; a good defense lawyer can come up with anything, so it is possible, but for now, Johnny Mervin—my guest Tom Blair—will cool his heels in jail.
She snuggles into me and I nearly weep with the joy of it.
* * *
Mingo isn’t easy to spot because he blends in with the other workers, yellow hard hat, reflective vest, protective glasses. He’s ripping the plywood off the windows of the boarded-up house where he once almost died.
Adam lets Chance and Dawg out of the car, and Dawg runs over to greet his boy with a full body wag. Adam sits in the Jetta for a minute, taking in the scene, gathering himself.
<
br /> Mingo lifts his face from his dog’s lapping tongue and nods in Adam’s direction. Adam climbs out of the car, walks toward the boy.
Mingo puts out a hand. “Mr. March, what brings you here?” He tugs Adam into a homeboy hug, a gesture that gives Adam an unexpected sense of connection, of acceptance.
“Skye needs to talk to you.”
“Ain’t got nothing to say to her.”
“No. She’s got something to say to you.”
Skye gets out of the Jetta. It’s clear that she’s nervous about this meeting, and that she’s struggling to get the words of her apology out. In the end, she simply takes Mingo by the hand and says, “Come back.”
* * *
Cody’s phone tings with an incoming text. Molly. Her usual threat. Im telling
And that’s when it finally hits Cody—she’s truly free.
She texts back: Go ahead Here’s her number Maybe I’ll be doing the telling
The silence is sweet.
* * *
I took in a great breath of human. It was a smorgasbord of human emotion, and the four people didn’t seem to mind my extensive examination of them. I tested for the usual symptoms of unrest and, happily, found none. Except hunger. They were worshiping at the grill, and the lovely scent of meat and cheese upheld the other scents, framing them in a happy cloud. The people laughed. I love that sound, and if I had one wish for canines, it would be that we, too, could make that sound. Instead, I whip my tail from side to side, and grin. Dawg is doing much the same, and both of us know that life is good, very good, when our people are happy. When they tell us that we’re good boys. Such good dogs.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
If it takes a village to raise a child, it certainly takes an army to get a book published. Bottomless gratitude to Annelise Robey and Andrea Cirillo, who continue to believe in my work. And to the rest of the Jane Rotrosen Agency staff, who work tirelessly on behalf of so many writers, thank you for all you do. A particular shout-out to Don W. Cleary and Don Cleary, Christina Prestia, Julianne Tinare, Michael Conroy, Peggy Boulos Smith, Liz Van Buren, and, always, Jane Rotrosen Berkey, who has advocated for the bully breeds for years.
Thank you to the good folks at St. Martin’s Press, namely, Joan Higgins, Sara Goodman, Chris Holder, John Murphy, Kerry Nordling, Sally Richardson, Anne Marie Tallberg, Stephanie Davie, and Lisa Davis. Thank you Young Lim, for the wonderful cover.
Especial gratitude to Caitlin Dareff, who rides herd so much.
I am indebted to the incomparable Carol Edwards, who keeps me from misplacing my modifiers. Even as I write this, I worry about comma placement. Thanks also to the tireless players at Macmillan, for keeping the voices in my head accessible to other ears: Brant Janeway, Samantha Beerman, Mary Beth Roche, and Robert Allen.
And to my dear Jennifer Enderlin. What words can express how deeply grateful I am to have you in my life?
The LakeView Hotel is a creation of my imagination, but the inspiration for it is the Whitcomb Summit Retreat in Florida, Massachusetts. Thank you, Jim Pedro, for sharing some of your story with me.
ALSO BY SUSAN WILSON
The Dog Who Saved Me
A Man of His Own
The Dog Who Danced
One Good Dog
Summer Harbor
The Fortune Teller’s Daughter
Cameo Lake
Hawke’s Cove
Beauty
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
SUSAN WILSON is the author of nine novels, including the bestselling One Good Dog and A Man of His Own. She lives on Martha’s Vineyard. Visit her at www.susanwilsonwrites.com, or sign up for email updates here.
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Prologue
Part I
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Part II
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Part III
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Also by Susan Wilson
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
TWO GOOD DOGS. Copyright © 2017 by Susan Wilson. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.stmartins.com
Cover photographs: pit bull on the right by Josette Lata; mountains © Lillian Polley/Arcangel Images; clouds © Vik Y/Shutterstock.com; grass © Eric Roberts/Shutterstock.com; head of pit bull on the left © Patrick Hickey/Shutterstock.com; body of pit bull on the left © ImageBROKER/Alamy stock photo
The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Names: Wilson, Susan, 1951– author.
Title: Two good dogs / Susan Wilson.
Description: First Edition. | New York: St. Martin’s Press, 2017.
Identifiers: LCCN 2016043108 | ISBN 9781250078124 (hardback) | ISBN 9781466890466 (e-book)
Subjects: | BISAC: FICTION / Contemporary Women. | FICTION / Suspense. | GSAFD: Suspense fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3573.I47533 T86 2017 | DDC 813/.54—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016043108
e-ISBN 9781466890466
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First Edition: March 2017