by Chris Pike
The dog was massive and it was zeroing in on Cassie!
Ryan acted instinctively and drew his gun, brought it up, and sighted it on the dog. In the millisecond it took to place his index finger on the trigger, Cassie reached over and shoved his arm up. Ryan lost his balance, the gun discharged, the blast echoing into the dense canopy of trees.
A flock of redbirds scattered.
Buster stood stunned, his eyes locked on Ryan as he regained his footing.
“Ryan!” Cassie screamed. “Don’t shoot!”
“That dog’s rabid. Stay back.”
“No!” Cassie yelled. “That’s Buster.”
“What?”
“Buster! The dog I gave my dad. I’m sure of it.” Her words were quick and to the point. Cassie lowered her voice and in a calming tone said, “Buster, come here. Good dog. Come here, boy.”
Buster swiveled his gaze from Cassie to Ryan, unsure how to proceed.
“Buster, come,” Cassie said.
With tremendous joy, Buster closed the few yards standing between him and Cassie in two glorious bounds. He leapt up to Cassie, stood on his hind legs, and put his massive paws on her shoulders. He licked her face, whining and wagging his tail as if he was a puppy.
For several moments Ryan stood to the side, awestruck at the joyous reunion. Cassie fell to the ground letting Buster nuzzle and lick her until she gave the command, “Stop. That’s enough.” Buster acquiesced to his mistress’s wishes.
“What the hell?” Ryan said. “What is your dog doing way out here? It must be over a hundred miles from here to where you live.”
“I don’t know what he’s doing here,” Cassie said standing up. She brushed off dirt and leaves from her jeans. “Maybe my dad came this way looking for me.”
“Why would he think you’re here?”
“I was on the phone with my dad when the plane lost electricity. I told him we had crossed the Sabine River, which meant we were descending. I guess he came to find me.”
“But here?” Ryan was skeptical. “Why here? It’s not the most direct route to NOLA.”
“I don’t know why he would come this way. It doesn’t make any sense.”
“Does he have any friends around here?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Are you sure that’s Buster?” Ryan asked.
“Of course,” Cassie said. “Check his tags if you don’t believe me. It’s got my dad’s name and phone number on it.”
“I’ll take your word for it. Maybe he got separated from your dad during the thunderstorm. I heard some of it last night while we were camping. Hey, is Buster scared of thunder?”
“I think he is.”
“What about gunshots? Lots of dogs are gun shy.”
“He could be, and if he was, it would explain why he is out here by himself. He must have run away during the thunderstorm,” Cassie said. Unable to contain her enthusiasm at finding Buster, Cassie bent down and rubbed him all over. “You’re a good dog. You hungry?” she asked in a tone Buster understood.
Buster sat down on his haunches, his eyes eager and his tail thumping on the ground, wiggling all over.
Cassie reached into her backpack and retrieved a piece of jerky. “Here you go,” she said, handing it to the dog.
Greedily, Buster ate the jerky. Afterward, Cassie poured water into her hand and let Buster drink.
“It’s a good thing we found you,” Cassie said. “If only you could tell us where my dad is.”
Chapter 22
“That should do it,” Dillon said.
He shoveled the last bit of the East Texas red dirt on top of the freshly dug grave of Amanda’s grandfather, Jack Hardy. He had scouted a location early in the morning before Amanda woke, picking a suitable spot. He chose a location not only for the ease of digging, but also a spot he thought the tough old codger would like.
It was in a clearing rimmed by tall pines where the wind and rain could come through, brushing the land, cleansing and washing it clean.
Dillon dug the grave in an east/west direction on a gently sloping declivity where the morning sun peeked through, warming the land, and where the rain could trickle away into the gully. In the hot afternoons, shade from the towering pines would protect the grave from the relentless rays. It was the least he could do for the old man.
Dillon and Chandler took turns digging and when it was as deep as they could get it, they placed Jack’s body in the grave.
Fortunately the soil had been loosened by the rain the night before, and they dug until tree roots prevented further progress. It wasn’t as deep as they would have liked it to be, but it should be deep enough so coyotes and other vermin couldn’t dig up the body.
Earlier Dillon had washed the blood from Jack’s face then placed him in a faded quilt he found in the master bedroom. With great difficulty, he put a clean shirt on the man in case Amanda wanted to view her grandfather’s body so he would be presentable. Before securing the blanket, Dillon asked Amanda if she wanted to see him one last time to which she replied, “No. I want to remember him when he was alive.”
Dillon had checked the old man’s pockets for anything of sentimental value. Reaching deep, he found a pocket watch, and surprisingly it was still working.
Holly and Amanda joined them in time to see Dillon shovel the last mound of dirt on the grave.
Standing aside the grave, Dillon pitched the blade end of the shovel into the ground and leaned on the handle.
The rising sun heated the land, drying the dewy grass. Humidity heightened. Such was the way with Texas weather.
“Anybody want to say a few words before we lay Amanda’s grandfather to rest?” Dillon swiped the back his hand across his forehead, wiping away sweat.
Amanda was weeping silently, her head bowed. She was holding her dog Nipper tight against her bosom. He was part fox terrier and part Russell terrier, and a dead ringer for the RCA Victor dog. Keeping with history, Jack had named him in honor of the famous dog.
Holly was as quiet as Dillon had ever seen her, and for a woman who made her living talking, this was totally out of character.
Chandler stepped over to Amanda and put his arm around her. She leaned her head against his chest and sobbed while he stroked her hair. “It’ll be okay,” he said. “We’re here for you.”
“Since nobody is volunteering, I’ll say a few words,” Dillon said. “Before I begin, Amanda, I found something I think your grandpa would’ve liked you to have.”
“What is it?” Amanda squeaked. She swiped beneath her eyes, wiping away tears.
Reaching into his pocket, Dillon retrieved the gold plated pocket watch with a thick chain attached to it and handed it to Amanda. “I found this in your grandpa’s pocket. I thought you would want it.”
Amanda set Nipper down and took the pocket watch, holding it in both hands. She gazed at it lovingly. “This was a wedding present my grandmother gave him on their wedding day. My grandpa never went anywhere without it. He said even after she was gone that he would hold it and know he always had a little bit of her close to him.”
“They must have loved each other very much. A love that only comes along once in a lifetime,” Holly said.
Amanda dropped her head and the tears flowed easily. Dillon took her hands in his and closed them around the watch. “It’s yours now.”
Amanda sniffled and Chandler stepped over to her.
Dillon took a deep breath. The last funeral he had attended had been Amy’s.
He cleared his throat and swallowed hard. “Dear Lord, as we gather here today let us remember the life of Jack Hardy and his Earthly years. He was a good man, husband, father, and grandfather who gave his life protecting his granddaughter. And while his body is gone from us, his soul lives on for eternity.” Dillon paused before continuing in a solemn voice. “Let us bow our heads and say the Lord’s Prayer together: Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name, thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on Earth as it is in heaven. Giv
e us this day our daily bread. Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, forever and ever. Amen.”
Amanda broke away from Chandler and ran back to the house. Chandler tuned to go to her, but Holly put a hand around his arm, stopping him. “Let her go.”
“She shouldn’t be alone,” Chandler said. “I’m afraid she might hurt herself.”
“I don’t think she’ll do that. I talked to her this morning and reassured her that we are here for her. It seemed to make her feel better. Give her a few minutes then go to her. I think she’d like that.”
Chandler glanced at Dillon. He was standing tall, wearing a working man’s uniform of a pair of jeans, boots, and a shirt with the sleeves rolled up.
Dillon gave a mere nod of his head in the direction of the house, indicating it was okay to go after her.
After Chandler was out of earshot, Holly said, “I think he likes that girl.”
“I think so too. She has grit. I’ll give her that.” It was quiet, with only the sounds of the wind on the land and the melodic chirping of a field sparrow. “You’re right. We can’t leave her here. She wouldn’t last a month.”
“I know,” Holly said. “She told me she has cousins in Dallas, but that might as well be a continent away.”
“She wouldn’t make it there by herself anyway.” Dillon took a stick and chopped away at the mud caking his boots. “We have to leave as soon as possible to get back to your ranch. I figure we’ll be there by noon if we leave soon. Let’s head on in and pack up. I’m eager to get going.”
Dillon took Holly by the arm and led her away from the grave. They walked a few yards through the wet grass, picking their way to the road leading to the house.
In the solemn moment Dillon’s thoughts went to his daughter, Cassie. He hoped that whoever found his daughter’s body would treat her with the same respect with which they had treated Amanda’s grandfather. The goon who killed Amanda’s grandfather wasn’t shown the same mercy, and Dillon was thankful that Holly hadn’t asked what they had done with the guy. Leaving his body to vultures and hogs wasn’t exactly civilized, yet he lost all privileges when he tried to kill them last night.
“Hey, wait a minute,” Holly said. “Where’s Nipper?”
“Didn’t he go with Amanda?”
“No.” Panic struck Holly at the possibility of another lost dog. She glanced back at the grave. Her heart sank and she put a hand to her mouth. Nipper was laying on top of the freshly dug grave, his head resting on his paws. It was as if he didn’t want to abandon Amanda’s grandfather.
“That’s got to be the saddest thing I’ve ever seen,” Dillon said. “He knows Jack is buried there.”
“I’ll go get him,” Holly said, “before Amanda sees him.”
* * *
After Holly coaxed Nipper away from the grave, she and Dillon walked back to the house, making sure the dog followed them.
When they came within view of the house, Nipper bolted past them and ran full speed to the front porch. He scrambled up the porch stairs, pushed open the screen door, and ran straight to Amanda’s room. Dismissing Chandler, who was sitting on the edge of the bed, Nipper stood on his hind legs and nosed the bed, searching for the perfect spot to jump on. With the ease of a cat, he leapt on the bed and carefully padded over to Amanda. He nuzzled her hand with his wet nose and she placed a hand on his head. She rubbed him between his eyes then ran her fingers down the rough fur along his back. Nipper’s ears flopped down and he hung his head as Amanda stroked him.
“Chandler, do you still want to come with me, to my aunt’s place?” Amanda asked.
“Of course I do,” the big man with a military style haircut that was in the process of growing out said softly. “I’ll take care of you.” He reached over to her hand and patted it.
Amanda sat up. “There’s one more thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Nipper comes too.”
Chapter 23
Ryan and Cassie walked the rest of the way to Hemphill with Buster trailing behind them. When they arrived on the outskirts of the rural town, Ryan suggested they take a break. He estimated it was around midnight, gauging the position of the constellations.
The stars twinkled among puffs of clouds floating in the inky night. As long as the moon shone, they were able to navigate the streets with relative ease, but when the sky darkened, Ryan felt uneasy.
After a brief rest, they plodded on, their footsteps heavy with fatigue as they passed darkened stores with broken windows, silent cars askew in the street. A hooded man saw them, stopped in mid-stride then melted back into the night.
Spotty gunfire erupted in the city and Ryan listened until the shots died out. He was bone tired and needed to take a quick break. He spotted an elementary school and a playground in the distance with tall trees lining the sidewalks, a motionless merry-go-round, children’s swings stilled.
“Let’s stop there a moment,” he said motioning with his head.
“The playground?” Cassie asked.
“Yes. We can take a short break.”
When they reached the school grounds, Ryan shrugged off his backpack, set it on the merry-go-round, and dug around inside. Finding a water bottle, he downed several big swallows then handed it to Cassie. She gulped water then poured a handful for Buster.
Ryan searched the outer pocket of the backpack for a map of East Texas he had swiped from the sporting goods store at the last minute. He found it, shook it open, and held it at an angle trying to utilize the glow of the waning moonlight.
“Ryan,” Cassie said, her intonation indicating her annoyance and weariness, “can you now tell me the name of the people who can help us?” She shrugged out of her backpack and slung it on the ground where it landed with a loud thud. Wearily, she sat down on a bench, her shoulders hunched over.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to keep it a secret. So much has happened…it slipped my mind. Their names are Helen and Ed Reynolds. They are old friends of my parents.”
“We’ve been together for what, a week now? And you’ve never even mentioned their names. When’s the last time you saw them?”
“I’m not even sure I’ve met them. My parents always told me that if I needed help I should go to them. They made me memorize their phone number and address.” Squinting at the enlarged insert street grid of Hemphill on the back of the map, he traced a line with his finger until he found the street the Reynolds lived on. “Found it!” His voice was tinged with relief and an odd feeling of
déjà vu washed over him as he stared at the street name.
He wondered if he had ever been here. It couldn’t be possible, because his earliest memories were of the flat and dry land of West Texas. Surely if he had been here before he would have remembered the towering trees.
“How much further do we need to go?” Cassie asked.
“About a mile,” Ryan replied.
“You seem a million miles away. What’s going on?” Cassie asked.
“I’m not sure. I have a funny feeling about this place. Have you ever had that feeling of déjà vu, like you’ve been someplace before?”
“Every once in a while.”
“I just had that. I think I’ve been here before because there’s something really familiar about the street name.”
Cassie asked, “What’s the street name?”
“Mockingbird.”
“Mockingbird?” Cassie repeated, flummoxed. “That’s probably the most common street name in Texas. “It is the state bird, after all. You know that, right?”
“Maybe.”
“Well, anyway, Mockingbird Lane is the most famous street in Dallas, probably all of Texas. It runs through the Highland Park area of Dallas and is a straight shot to Dallas Love Field. Who hasn’t heard of that?” Cassie folded the map and handed it to Ryan.
“Me, for one. I’ve never been to
Dallas.”
“Maybe you have been here before.”
* * *
Before they picked up their backpacks for the last mile long leg of their journey, Ryan instructed Cassie there would be no talking because he didn’t want to take any chances on the last yard line of the metaphorical hundred yard dash they had made. He had seen too many football games lost when the running back’s stamina ran out on the ten yard line, only to be tackled by a faster opponent.
The more they walked along Mockingbird Street, the more Ryan kept thinking he’d seen this place before. The large trees were like a canopy over the street, cloaking them in mystery, and a brief memory came back to him. He had been a toddler, perhaps three, and he was riding in the back seat of a car, captivated by the majestic grandeur of the trees. A strange shiver captured Ryan.
“You okay?” Cassie asked, picking up on his uneasiness.
“Not sure. I’ve got that strange feeling again.”
Street numbers were painted in a large white font on each house, and as Ryan counted, a twinge of nostalgia washed over him again. He tried to shake it off, but it clung to him stubbornly. A flash of a memory playing in a front yard came to him, of a woman talking to his mother in hushed tones, glancing around as if she was concerned they were being watched.
“We’re here,” Ryan said. He took a deep breath and quietly walked up the walkway leading to the house, Cassie following him.
A dog barked and a slamming door from across the street caught Ryan’s attention. Angry shouts of a domestic fight echoed in the night, the words indiscernible. He motioned for Cassie to stop, quieting their footsteps echoing in the lonely night.
Buster sensed the need to be quiet so he sat on his haunches, ears perked, listening.
The man who had shouted stomped angrily from the back of his house, came to his driveway and stopped dead in his tracks. He had on a dirty white muscle shirt, a pair of ill-fitting trousers, and was balding on top. He cast a wary glance at Ryan and Cassie. The man walked a few steps closer, hugging the side of his truck, took a step forward, and craned his head in Ryan’s direction.