Dark River Road

by Virginia Brown

“Risky? Yes. It is. And I can’t make promises either. All we can do is take it one day at a time.”

  He smiled. “A twelve-step program for love, huh.”

  “No, for commitment. I think we both know how we feel. We just need to learn to trust each other.”

  “Tall order.”

  “One worth aiming for, don’t you think?”

  He pulled her close, rested his jaw atop her hair and let out a deep breath. “Yeah.”

  After a moment she pulled away, smiled up at him. “So. See you later?”

  “God, I hope so.”

  She kissed him goodbye at the door, and he watched her walk up toward the big house, feet making a path in the damp grass. The sky was still a putty color that promised rain. He waited until she went inside, then he turned to go back into the house. A glimpse of something at the side of his car caught his eye and he paused, then he went to investigate.

  It took a moment to connect the bundle of fur with what had once been a cat. His stomach flipped with apprehension. The badly mauled animal couldn’t possibly have crawled there to die. Someone had dumped a dead cat by the driver’s side of his car, an obvious message. He knelt down. Dogs had gotten it. Big dogs.

  He took the dead cat into the clinic. Doc looked it over and agreed with him. Pit bulls were the likely culprit, animals with powerful jaws.

  “Someone’s trying to tell you something, son,” Doc said as he gently wrapped the dead cat in a towel. “You know, several years back, I tried to get someone to stop the dog fights. No one gives a damn. Police, animal control—most of the time they’re just as involved as the men running the ring. It makes a lot of money. Sometimes fifty, sixty thousand is bet on which dog’ll come out winner. Hell, the head of the animal shelter sells confiscated dogs out the back door. Not just here, either. Cities all over the country have a problem, but no one wants to investigate. They’re just dogs. Doesn’t matter worth a damn that they live in fear and torment every day of their lives. Fed just enough to keep them at fighting weight, worked on weights and with chains and tires—dogs that’ll fight might live a while until they get too chewed or old to beat the next one. Then they’re thrown aside like garbage. Like they don’t have feelings. Makes me goddam sick. I’d like to see the men responsible smeared with bacon grease and put into the ring with a couple of dogs they’ve abused, see how well they do at it. But that’s not likely to happen. And it’s not likely you’ll find anyone willing to help you bust up this ring, either, Chantry, so don’t expect to get anywhere. Last man that tried ended up with broken legs, and he got off light.”

  It was the most he’d ever heard Doc say at one time since he’d known him, and Chantry couldn’t say anything for a moment. He thought about Beau and Rafe, and Billy Mac Stark out there with all those dogs in pens stacked atop each other. And he thought about what they would have done to Sugarpie if he and Mindy hadn’t gone out there to get her. And then he thought about Shadow, and how Rainey used to threaten to sell him for bait, and he knew he couldn’t just look the other way no matter how futile it might be. It wasn’t in him. Hell, he’d been bucking the odds all his life and rarely won, but that didn’t mean he could stop now. He looked at Doc and shrugged.

  “I know. No different than how it’s always been for me. And if I can just break up this one, that’s something.”

  Doc just looked at him for a minute. Then he blew out a heavy breath. “I’ll tell you what all I know, but it’s not much.”

  It was more than he expected. Doc gave him names of a few people who actually wanted to stop the fights, but warned him not to let anyone else find out. Jobs weren’t the only things at risk. Men got mean when money was involved.

  After the clinic closed that afternoon, Chantry looked up the first person on the list. Lu Emma Lamar stared at him warily through her locked screen door.

  “Who’d you say you are?”

  “Dr. Callahan from the Cane Creek Animal Clinic. I’ve got a card if you want to see it.” He fished in his pocket and pulled out a dog-eared card to hold up. She peered through wire mesh then looked from the card to him.

  “You’re that Chantry Callahan used to live in Sugarditch, aren’t you.” She said it as more of a statement than a question, like she knew all about him already.

  “Yes, ma’am.” He wasn’t sure if that’d be a plus, seeing as how his reputation had usually caused more trouble than not, but after a hesitation, she flicked up the hook on the door and opened it.

  “Come on in. I’ve got something on the stove, but I’ll be with you in a minute.”

  He eased inside and seated himself on a well-worn but comfortable couch covered in cotton linen flowers. Familiar smells drifted from the kitchen. Chicken fried steak. He hadn’t eaten it since Mama had last cooked it. Dr. Mike called it “heart attack on a plate” and preferred steamed vegetables and baked chicken. His stomach growled.

  Mrs. Lamar stuck her head around the door like she’d heard it and said, “You want to stay for supper? I cooked extra.”

  He should have said no but he didn’t, and in a few minutes he sat at the kitchen table in front of a window that looked out over high weeds rustling in the wet wind while Mrs. Lamar piled mashed potatoes and gravy on his plate next to a huge slab of chicken fried steak. Battered and fried, the steak was tender and delicious. He’d never been a fan of turnip greens, but these were pretty good, and her biscuits were light and fluffy and dripping with butter. Oh yeah. Heart attack on a plate but worth the risk.

  “So,” Mrs. Lamar said when the table had been cleared and she’d set out a piece of Karo pecan pie for each of them, “just what do you want to know from me?”

  “You work at the Quinton County animal shelter. I need some information.”

  “About selling dogs out the back door, I’ll bet.”

  He nodded. “Yeah.”

  An older woman, with curling gray and brown hair that waved back from her high forehead, she frowned slightly. “I’m likely to lose my job if I tell you anything. And I need that paycheck.”

  “I can keep secrets.”

  She looked up at him, a faint smile on her mouth. “I’d heard that. Close-mouthed, they used to say about you. Talkative as a turnip. All right. I’d like to see it stopped. I can’t bear thinking about what those poor dogs go through. They come in all scared and scarred and most of them just want to be loved—wagging tails and looking up with this hope in their eyes that makes me want to cry. Well, some of ’em are already ruined, no doubt about that, mean as junk yard dogs, but I figure they were made to be that way just to survive. Not often you run across a born-mean dog. Survival. That’s what it’s all about. Some are better equipped for it than others. Like those dogs. Like you. And some folks are like cockroaches, spreading disease everywhere they go. Those are the ones I’d like to see put down, not those poor dogs that don’t know anything other than to fight or die.”

  “Maybe I can help,” he said after a minute when she got quiet and looked out the kitchen window. “Won’t know until I try.”

  She looked back at him and nodded. Then her blue eyes lit up a little. “Know what the oldest profession is? No, it’s not that one. It’s animal husbandry. Says so in the Bible. Not in those words, but the first thing God had Adam and Eve do in Eden is take care of all the animals, put names to them, see to them . . . looks like that bite of apple caused trouble for more than just people. Most of us haven’t been doing what we should since they got kicked out of that garden, but I do what I can. It just never seems to be enough.”

  He didn’t want to talk about God or what he was supposed to do. So he just said, “What can you tell me about the dogs? Do you know who sells them? Who buys them?”

  “Yep. There’s two guys that work there who do that, one of them fills out the papers that say the dog’s been put down, the other one makes a few calls and someone comes to the back door. Money changes hands, the dog goes off, and it’s marked down the dog’s dead. Simple as that. No one ever bothers to c
heck.”

  “And no one’s ever protested?”

  She hesitated, then nodded. “A couple of years ago, a young girl worked there for the summer. She got real upset when she figured out what was going on, said she was going to tell the police, call the TV stations. Back then, Kyle Chesney ran the shelter. He called her into his office, and the next day she was gone. Heard that someone tried to run her car off the road on the way home.”

  “So she got fired.”

  “No, she quit. But that girl was terrified, I can tell you that. You might know her. Sara Ledbetter.”

  “Ledbetter—Dale Ledbetter’s daughter?”

  Mrs. Lamar nodded. “Her daddy called up raising cain, and I don’t know what was said, but for a while there, Chesney sure was in a bad mood. Nothing ever came of it.”

  “Would you give me the names of the employees who sell the dogs?”

  “Terrell Johnson and Frank Coley. And I can tell you who one of the buyers is, if you want to know that.”

  He’d taken out his little notebook and scribbled down the names, and he looked up at her and nodded. “Tell me everything you can.”

  “Billy Mac Stark. I saw him come ’round the back in his truck. He’s got one of those covers over the bed, like a little camper, so you can’t see that he’s got wire cages in the back.”

  Paydirt on his very first visit. He stayed a while longer, ate his pie, and when he left Mrs. Lamar insisted he take home some leftovers. He had three other names, but for now, this was enough to get started. His next stop was the police station.

  “I want to report a dog-fighting ring.”

  The sergeant at the front desk just looked at him a minute, then said to fill out a report and they’d check on it. Chantry didn’t move to take the paperwork shoved toward him. The officer’s eyes narrowed.

  “If you want to report a possible crime, you gotta fill out the report.”

  “I want to talk to someone about it first.”

  “I’m listenin’.”

  “Never mind.”

  It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out the report would hit the round file before he got out the front door. Well, he’d done his duty. Now he’d try something else.

  Two days and a couple dozen calls later, he realized there wasn’t anyone willing to help. City councilmen, state police, animal control, even the media—no one seemed to care. It was unbelievable.

  “There’s a pit bull rescue group in DeSoto County,” Cinda suggested. She handed him a glass of crisp white wine. “I know the woman who heads the group. Want me to call her and see if she has suggestions?”

  Chantry looked at her for a moment, appreciating the sight of her standing in his kitchen looking so cool and composed in white linen with her pale hair piled atop her head and held with pretty combs. She was searing salmon on the Jenn-air, and had put an apron on over her sleeveless linen suit.

  “Yeah,” he said, “I’m willing to try anything about now.”

  “Just don’t expect miracles. Here. Have an appetizer.”

  He looked at it, some triangular shaped thing that looked all puffy dough. “What is it?”

  “Delicious. Try it, then I’ll tell you.”

  “I’m not that adventurous when it comes to food.”

  “Broaden your horizons. Take culinary risks. Any man willing to brave Billy Mac Stark should be able to handle a spinach puff.”

  It was pretty good, he had to admit. He ate three, then said, “Billy Mac’s not the only one involved. And I wouldn’t put it past him to do something bad.”

  “Really?” Focused on the salmon, she didn’t look up for a moment. When she did, she paused with the fork in mid-air. “Does this have anything to do with the mysterious noise you heard outside the other night?”

  He hadn’t told her what he’d found. It hadn’t seemed necessary. He should have known she’d put two and two together. “Yeah. A little.”

  “I don’t want to know the details.”

  “No. You don’t.”

  She stared at him. “Are you in danger, Chantry?”

  “No more than usual.”

  “Is that supposed to be comforting?”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “Hardly.” Cinda moved the salmon from the grill to a plate. “You’ve been in trouble ever since I’ve known you, when you beat up Frankie Patton for shoving me.”

  “We were in second grade.”

  “And you’re still reckless.”

  “That’s part of my charm.”

  She looked up at him and smiled. “You know, I think it just may be. You were the bad boy I wasn’t supposed to like.”

  “But you did anyway.”

  “Oh yes. But not because you were bad.”

  “Women always like thinking they can reform misguided men and mold them into something they think they want.”

  “Don’t lump me in with your other women, Romeo.”

  He pointed to the salmon. “Is that ready to eat yet? And I’d never lump you in with any other woman. It’s always been just you.”

  It was true. And he could tell from her smile that she knew it. There was something vaguely comforting about that. Or maybe just comfortable. New territory, this, the feeling that Cinda knew him as well as he knew himself and liked him anyway. He didn’t have to pretend to be someone else. Not that he ever had, but he’d always felt like he fell short of the mark, even with his grandparents. Even with Mama. Maybe especially with Mama.

  After they ate, they went into the den. It was still too hot to sit outside, and even if it was cool enough, the mosquitoes were ferocious. Instead of TV, he hit the stereo, one of the local stations that played music from the eighties and nineties as well as current hits. Cinda kicked off her shoes and sat with her head resting on his shoulder, sipping wine.

  They didn’t have to talk to feel comfortable together. It was almost like it’d been with Tansy when he was a kid, this level of familiarity and acceptance. Maybe real love wasn’t all about passion and wild emotion, but a feeling like coming home. God. He didn’t want to think too long about that, didn’t want to risk losing what he’d never had anyway. He’d never felt at home anywhere. Why take unnecessary risks?

  Still, it was tempting to entertain the fantasy when he sat with Cinda like this, her cuddled up close to him and smelling so good. He could almost think of a future with her, something besides just the moment.

  Days were getting shorter, but it was still pretty light at eight-thirty when someone knocked on his door. Roused from a light sleep, Cinda sat up and yawned while he got up to answer the door. Chris Quinton looked at him, then his gaze went to Cinda still on the couch. A wry smile twisted his mouth.

  “Sorry to interrupt.”

  Chantry didn’t move from the doorway. “What’s up?”

  “Trouble.”

  “For—?””

  Chris tilted his head toward Cinda. Chantry stepped back and let him in. On the stereo, Police was singing a song about “every breath you take, every step you make, I’ll be watching you” and he thought about Chris always seeming to be somewhere close by. Like a dark cloud.

  “Hey,” Cinda said to her cousin, and he smiled grimly.

  “Hear you’re spending a lot of time here in the carriage house lately.”

  Cinda’s gaze cooled. “And?”

  “And it’s stirring up shit.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  “Personally, I think you should do what you want. What you always wanted to do since we were kids. But you might want to think about discretion for now.”

  “Speaking of,” Chantry said before Cinda could respond, “how’s it going in your corner?”

  Chris looked at him. “I haven’t said anything yet. Hell, I know what you’re thinking. Maybe you’re right. But when she left town it didn’t seem urgent.”

  “Yeah.”

  Cinda got up from the couch. “Who left town? And what does this have to do with me?”

  “Nothing.
Paolo told Granddad you’re sleeping with Chantry. And you know he’ll tell Aunt Cara if he hasn’t already, and she’ll raise nine kinds of hell.”

  Cinda shook her head. “Paolo wouldn’t be that indiscreet.” Chris just looked at her, and Cinda’s eyes narrowed. “Damn him. Maybe he’ll find Motel Six more to his liking tonight.”

  That’d suit Chantry well enough, but he didn’t say it out loud.

  Cinda set down her wine glass and fiddled with a loose strand of her hair. “So what did Granddad say?”

  Chris’s eyes shifted from Cinda to Chantry and he blew out a short breath. “That it’s time he did something permanent about the riffraff littering Cane Creek.”

  So it wasn’t so much a warning for Cinda as it was for him. That was okay. He’d faced down old man Quinton before. Chantry shrugged when Cinda turned to look at him.

  “That’s nothing new. He’s been trying to get rid of me since I was a kid.”

  “But you’re not a kid any longer,” Chris said, “and he won’t use the same tactics. Watch your back.”

  “Oh, you mean this time he won’t sic the police on me? This time he won’t try to send me to jail for something I didn’t do?” Chantry grimaced. “Didn’t he try that before?”

  “This time it’s different.”

  “How different?” Cinda asked, and Chris didn’t say anything for a minute He had this look on his face like he regretted saying anything at all, his mouth all tight and eyes narrowed, but after a couple of beats of silence, he let out a long sigh.

  “Dangerous. Swimming with the turtles kind of dangerous. You’ve pissed him off royally this time, and I’m not sure he’s thinking past getting shed of you.”

  Swimming . . . the look on Chris’s face and the way he said it suddenly reminded Chantry of Chris’s mama, and how she’d said something about Ted Quinton going off to swim. She hadn’t meant that, though, he was pretty sure. Somebody would have noticed that Ted disappeared too suddenly if he was dead. This wasn’t the fifties when folks went missing on a regular basis. People noticed things now. People didn’t just disappear. Did they?