Splintered Silence

by Susan Furlong

  I ran my tongue along my suddenly dry lips and strained to see what had alerted her. Other officers coming to the scene would have responded instantly. Hunters too, unless they were poachers. Travellers would be hesitant when they heard her say she was a deputy.

  All around us there was nothing but trees—dense, dark, and eerily silent. My once beloved woods now loomed like a dream turned into a hellish nightmare, shadows hovering, moist air thick with threats. I tightened my hold on Wilco’s leash and stepped in front of Gran. Then I saw it, or rather heard it first: a sudden crackle of dry leaves, breaking twigs, followed by pounding footsteps. In the distance, I caught a glimpse of color darting between the trees—dark blue or maybe black—moving away from us and fading quickly into the woodland shadows. Deputy Parks drew her gun and yelled “Stop!” and took off in pursuit. The dense tree trunks swallowed her from sight, and her running footfalls faded, leaving Gran and me bewildered and alone.

  A few seconds later, gunshots punctuated the air: pop, pop, pop.

  I unclipped Wilco’s leash, grabbed Gran, and headed down the trail toward the deputy’s car. “Come on!” Behind us, Wilco struggled to keep up, but I didn’t slow my pace. I couldn’t take a chance with Gran.

  My brain scrabbled for a quick plan of action: get to the vehicle, take cover, break the window if necessary . . .

  “Just a little farther, Gran.” Small and frail though she looked, a combination of inherent stamina, and now fear, propelled her alongside me, not missing a step. A couple hundred yards ahead, the trail intercepted a dirt road. I caught a glimpse of sunlight gleaming off a chrome bumper. I looked behind me. Wilco was a ways back, his eyes glued to me as he labored along, his ears high, whether alerted to danger by my reactions or by his own senses, I couldn’t tell.

  We reached the car, and I pushed Gran below the fender, opposite where the shots had rung out. I crouched next to her, pulled out my cell, and fired off a 911 call. Service was spotty, my voice ragged, but I relayed the situation and our approximate location. Gran leaned against the vehicle, her face flushed.

  A harsh growl ripped the air. I disconnected and wheeled toward the sound. Wilco stood about fifty yards away with his snout raised. He wasn’t in his alert stance but was bobbing his head, sniffing first the air, then the ground. He was onto something. Unlike many military dogs, Wilco was trained as a single-purpose dog. He detected the scent of human decay. That was it. Not explosives, not drugs, not fresh human blood. He wasn’t trained for patrol, crowd control, or live search and rescue. He was single-minded, but the best at what he did. No other cadaver dog had revealed as many bodies in a single tour. But he was also something else: loyal. I’d trained with some fine dogs at Lackland AFB—where I learned to be a handler—and balked when they assigned Wilco to me on my first tour. He was green in the field. Straight out of DTS (dog training school), wily and unpredictable even then. But we quickly bonded. More than bonded. I was his world, his pack, and he was my constant companion, my friend. And despite his sometimes unpredictable behavior since the explosion, his loyalty had never wavered. Wilco would do anything to protect me. And right now, he sensed something: body odor, blood, sweat . . . a smell that didn’t belong: danger.

  I looked toward Gran. “Stay down! Crawl underneath the car if you have to. But don’t show yourself for any reason. Do you understand?”

  Her blue eyes grew wide and terrified against her pale face. Wilco’s growl deepened. He now bared his teeth, his fangs flashing under curled lips. He stood rigid, tail high and bristled, with his eyes boring into the woods. I scrambled toward him, picking up a piece of fallen timber on the way. The branch felt solid in my hand, heavy enough to crack a skull. I crouched low, not far from my dog at the edge of the woods, ready to spring up and take on whoever approached. I guess I was part pack dog too. I’d do anything, sacrifice anything, to protect Gran.

  A rustling noise drew my attention to the trail. I clutched my impromptu weapon.

  “Miss Callahan?”

  Tension drained from my muscles. “Yes, we’re over here.” It was Deputy Parks making her way through the underbrush. I stood from my position and relaxed. I held up my hand and signaled for Wilco to stay put.

  “I went back to the trail but didn’t see you. Where’s your grandmother?”

  “Over there. Behind your vehicle.”

  Parks glanced to the side. “Come on. Get her, and let’s get out of here.”

  She already had her keys out. The radio on her shoulder emitted a series of unintelligible blips: “10-22,” she responded. “I’m at my vehicle. Subjects are present. I’ll meet you on the main road.” Then, breaking code protocol, she snapped, “No, dammit. I lost him. He’s heading north by northwest, blue sweatshirt, knit hat . . . no, that’s all I saw.”

  I helped Gran into the back seat. She was badly shaken, but okay. Wilco climbed in with her. He sat with his tongue out, panting in her ear. I’d barely made it into the passenger side before Parks cranked the wheel of the SUV—a Tahoe, a specially equipped Police Pursuit Vehicle. “Can’t believe the SOB took a shot at me,” she said. “And that I lost him.”

  “Any idea who it was?”

  “No idea. Maybe they’ll intercept him.” She glanced my way. “Sheriff said you’re a cop.”

  “Ex-military cop. There’s no sign of a car. Wonder if he was just a hunter and mistook you for deer.”

  She reached into her front breast pocket and pulled out a bag with a spent casing. “Right. A deer that talks and tells the SOB to identify himself. I found this.”

  “Looks like a .223 Remington. Probably from a semi-auto rifle.” I’d carried an M4 in the military. With its collapsible stock, it fit my smaller frame and was more portable than the M16 or an AR-15, but I’d trained on a variety of weapons and easily recognized that caliber of ammo.

  “Yeah. Guys use SARs for hunting all the time, or”—she dropped the casing back into her front pocket—“he could have been our killer. Otherwise why shoot and run?” She slammed her palm against the steering wheel. “Damn! Can’t believe I lost him.”

  I sank back into the seat. The road was rough. We hit a bump that knocked me against the passenger door. I glanced over my shoulder into the back seat to check on Gran. Wilco swiped his tongue alongside her face. She leaned into him. I hadn’t had the chance to officially introduce Gran to Wilco yet, but it looked like a run for their lives in the woods had bonded them. I turned back around and eased against the seat.

  I kept my mouth shut, but this guy in the woods wasn’t the killer. There was no way he’d go to all the trouble to dispose of a body in such a remote location, just to hang around and get caught. Dump and get out. That’s what he’d do.

  The car veered off the access road, with a final bump onto the smooth main road, and came to a stop near another police car. Deputy Parks got out to talk to the other cop waiting there, and I looked behind us. Who would shoot at an officer and why? The deep shadows of the woods held secrets, that much I knew. Doogan’s words came back to me. “No place for a woman,” he’d said. I’d have to find out what he meant by that.

  CHAPTER 3

  By the time Gran and I made it back home, she was worried sick over being away from Gramps for too long. She rushed to his bedside, checked his oxygen, and straightened the medicine bottles that lined his dresser. “How are you feeling this morning?”

  “Half-starved, that’s how I am. Where the hell have you been? Been waitin’ on my breakfast.” A wheezing noise escaped between every other gravely word.

  She patted his shoulder. “I’m sorry to have worried you, Fergus. But the most terrible thing happened—”

  “Tell me about it after you get my food, will ya?”

  Gran looked my way. “Can you help him while I fetch some breakfast?”

  She scurried off to the kitchen, leaving me alone with Gramps. Wilco hobbled over to give him a friendly introductory sniff, but Gramps pushed him away, tossed aside the covers, and swung his spindly le
gs over the bedside.

  I rushed to his side. “Let me help you.”

  He batted my arm away. “Just hand me my wheels. I need to get to the pisser.”

  I gritted my teeth. I’m not sure what I’d expected. He’d ignored me when I came home the night before. Did I think the light of day would bring a new attitude—an embrace, some small talk, a nice word or two?

  Biting back a retort, I retrieved a walker parked against the far wall and handed him his portable oxygen pack. Gramps used to be a hulking figure, tall and broad with muscles well-honed from years of manual labor, anything from construction jobs to farm work, whatever came his way. But a forty-year pack-a-day habit caught up to him. The cancer had eaten most of his lungs, reducing him to a shriveling mass of bone and thinly stretched skin. His eyes had a sickly yellow tinge, and his nearly white hair was wiry and sparse from a couple of failed chemo attempts.

  I hovered nearby, biting my lip as he pulled himself upright. He grunted and murmured a curse or two. Wilco stayed close. He seemed intrigued by Gramps. Why? Did he smell death on him, the type of decay that starts deep inside the body even before the last heartbeat?

  Gramps was fully standing now. I backed off as he picked up the walker and plopped it back down again. A small bell tied to the handle made a ringing sound. It must’ve been something Gran rigged to keep track of him when he was on the move. She was always worried he might fall. Ring, ring, thud. Ring, ring, thud. Gramps paused and squinted down at Wilco, who was limping next to him. “What’s wrong with that stupid dog now?”

  Instantly, my inner monster writhed, and I swallowed back the words I wanted to say: You mean a stupid dog who is loyal to his kin, demands nothing but love, and doesn’t smoke himself to death? I bit it back, spit out, “He hurt his leg this morning. I’m taking him to the vet. Gran asked me to take care of you first.”

  “I don’t need your help. She takes care of me just fine.”

  “She’s upset. There was a dead woman up in the rocks. Wilco found her. That’s where we were this morning. The police detained us for questions.”

  He stopped and leaned heavily against the handles of his walker.

  I continued, “They think it’s Sheila Costello. Her brother was there with us. He’s pretty upset.”

  Gramps narrowed his eyes. “Dub’s wife?”

  “Guess so.”

  “Dub made a mistake when he married that woman. Nothing but trouble, she was.”

  My jaw muscles clenched. “Well, she won’t be trouble anymore. Someone shot her in the head.”

  “Jeezus.” It came out as one long wheeze followed by a coughing spell.

  I snatched a couple of tissues from the box on the dresser and took them to him. “Was she not getting along with Dub?”

  “Hell if I know. It ain’t none of my business.”

  Meaning they weren’t getting along. Otherwise he’d have said so.

  Gramps lifted his shoulders and sucked in air. “I know she wasn’t much on this place. We weren’t good enough for her.” He didn’t look at me, but we both knew he’d shot the accusation my way. “ ’Spose she, at least, came by that naturally. She was from that clan down in the Carolinas. They live different from us. Big mansions and money like it’s growin’ on trees.” He pressed his lips together and inhaled through his nosepiece, sliding his eyes my way. “He should’ve stuck to his own, married a girl from here.”

  “Maybe no girl from here would have him.”

  He opened his mouth to snap back, but a sharp inhale sent him into another coughing spasm. I watched without a pang of regret. Sure, I knew it was the wrong thing to say. Yeah, okay, he’s dying. Give the old man a break, Brynn. Yet for all my inner tongue-lashing, still I hated the old man for what he’d done, and I couldn’t let it loose.

  “Fergus!” Gran shot back into the room and inserted her small frame between us. Either she’d been listening in on our conversation, which isn’t difficult to do in a compact mobile home, or she’d sensed an impending fight. She’d always played the peacekeeper, running constant interference between Gramps and me. It was her role in the family. She played it well.

  With a simple look and light touch, she redirected the situation. “Come on now, Fergus. Let’s get you situated so you can eat your breakfast.” She shuffled him off to the bathroom. Glancing back my way, she said, “Meg left a message. Said she had to leave, but could give you a lift tomorrow before her shift.”

  Crap! I’d forgotten about my car. Meg had driven me home from Mack’s Pub the night before. Good thing. I was drunk off my ass, and the road between McCreary and the tiny municipality of Bone Gap, where my grandparents lived, where I used to live, where I guess I lived again now, was a viciously curving tract of highway infamous for its treacherous switchbacks. It was also a great deterrent for visitors. Which is why my Irish ancestors had chosen to locate in the area generations ago.

  Gran continued, “And I called Dr. Styles for you. He said he’d be happy to take a look at Wilco. I left the address on the counter. Why don’t you head on over there now? You can take our car. I can handle things here.”

  I thanked her and headed for the kitchen to gather my stuff. Just before walking out the door, I turned back to see her help Gramps settle into his favorite recliner. As she tucked a blanket around him, their eyes met. Then Gran leaned forward and rested her cheek against his. For a second, a tender gesture, so full of love, fluttered between them like an autumn leaf on the first snow of the season—a glint of vibrant red and gold, too fragile to endure the cold end to come.

  * * *

  I parked Gran’s Buick and glanced hesitantly toward the wood-frame barn that served as Doctor Styles’s clinic. The building might have originally housed only eight to ten stalls, but it had been restructured into a clinic and painted in the typical barn red. I steeled myself. Our last stint with a veterinarian ended with Wilco practically tearing the arm off the poor doctor. Hopefully, this time would go better.

  Or maybe not. Wilco balked when I opened the car door, his nose furiously twitching as he hunkered down with his black head between his front paws. Even from here, his powerhouse of a sniffer picked up familiar and terrifying scents: antiseptics, other animals, disease . . . Who knew what that nose could detect? I clipped him to the coil leash on my belt and gave a gentle tug, but he dug in deeper. I leaned into the car and hefted him out as gently as I could, holding him like a baby, placing him on the ground. This was the same dog that earlier, out in the woods, had stood on alert, prepared to pounce and rip the flesh off anyone who threatened me; now he stood quivering, with his tail tucked nervously around his hind leg. PTSD sucked.

  The front door of the clinic opened and a middle-aged man in khakis walked out to greet us. “Brynn Callahan?” He approached with a smile. I stood and gripped his hand. He was clean-shaven, with salt-and-pepper hair, a strong jaw, and a ready smile. “And this must be Wilco.” He bent down a little closer, made eye contact, but didn’t reach out to pet him. Smart man. Dogs, like humans, have a sense of personal boundaries. They don’t want their space invaded by strangers, any more than you or I’d want someone to reach out and tousle our hair upon first meeting. I felt a little more at ease.

  He invited us to follow him inside and patiently trudged along as I half walked/half dragged Wilco through the door. “A reluctant patient, huh?”

  “Clinics set him off. He’s not had the best experiences with vets. Nor they with him,” I added as a not-too-subtle warning.

  “I understand. Why don’t we pass the normal check-in then and get right to it. I hate to prolong his agony.” He chuckled. “Or mine.”

  We were in a sparse waiting area, separated from the rest of the building by a paneled wall. A beat-up leather sofa was parked against one side; a desk, a copy machine, and two tall file cabinets lined the other wall. Dr. Styles walked over to the desk and snatched up a pair of reading glasses and a clipboard, then motioned for us to follow him through a door and out into an open area
. We made our way toward a row of doors that lined the back of the barn.

  “I just have a small operation here,” Styles explained. “I’m a country doctor. I used to specialize in bovines, but now I care for horses, pigs, sheep . . . and dogs, of course.” He peered down at Wilco, who limped along, his head swaying as he incessantly whined. “Mostly I travel to see my patients. But I do treat a handful of animals here. I handle most everything myself, but I have a part-time assistant to help with office work and such.” He opened the door to one of the rooms and motioned for us to enter. The well-lit white examination room had a counter at one end with cabinets above it and little else. No exam table, like a typical vet office. From the sounds of it, most of his patients were a bit too big for a table anyway.

  “I brought his records with me, if you want to have a look.” I never travelled anywhere without Wilco’s medical history. I handed the records over, then gave Wilco a reassuring pat and a quick hug. “His shots are up-to-date. No allergies that I know about.”

  “Excellent. If you don’t mind, I’ll make a copy of these before you leave. Just in case Wilco needs to stop by again. Your grandmother mentioned on the phone that you might be staying a while.”

  “Yeah. For a while, I guess.”

  He leaned against one of the cabinets, glasses perched on his nose as he scanned over Wilco’s records. After a while, he set the records aside and approached Wilco, holding out his hand and letting my dog take a good whiff. “He’s deaf.”

  “Yes.”

  “He’s got quite the story. I’m sure you both do.” He opened a nearby cabinet and pulled out a muzzle. “Just a precaution.”

  “A two-hundred-pound bite force isn’t something to mess around with.”

  He smirked. “Agreed.” I clamped my hands on Wilco’s neck, holding his head in place while Styles secured the muzzle. “Okay. Let’s see what we got,” he said.

  I watched as he gently prodded along Wilco’s front right leg, mumbling to himself as he worked. “Pad’s okay, metacarpus and carpus seem fine, elbow joints okay, aw . . . see how he reacted here? I’m willing to bet he’s pulled a tricep muscle. I’d like to take an X-ray, just to make certain, though.”