By Dog Alone: A Kelton Jager Adventure Book 2

by Charles Wendt

  “Who is your town’s comptroller?”

  “That would be Mr. Grunfeld. He’s also our banker,” Bobby cried out with cheek twisted in confusion. “He handles all the big money in Westburg.”

  Kelton reached into his pocket and grabbed the paper program from the memorial service as he leaned forward to get good and close to Bobby’s contorted face.

  “You tell Mr. Grunfeld that I don’t care how much money he has in his bank. He could clean out every till and the contents of every safety deposit box, all the town’s accounts too, and he’d still not have anywhere near what would be required to buy my dog.”

  Then using the program as a barrier to his finger prints, he grabbed the man’s gun and threw it into the storm drain at the curb.

  “Aus!” he called.

  Azrael slowly lowered his tail, stood up from his sprawled stance and let go of his prize. His brown coat and the drab harness were sprinkled with bloody droplets and his eyes glowed with contentment and satisfaction. As he trotted after Kelton and resumed the heel position, there was a bounce in his stride which said that this had just been the best day ever.

  The blond girl was very much long gone, but Kelton walked as if he was trying to catch her in long powerful quick strides. He knew the McFife character even now was calling for help. Sure, he could have grabbed the radio on his belt, and then frisked him down for his cellphone and thrown that in the storm drain, too. But there were more passing cars, restaurant patrons and shop keeps all around. Some of them would be calling for help too. That couldn’t be prevented so he opted for a half minute more of a head start. He just didn’t want to be shot in the back leaving the starting blocks so had paused to disarm him.

  An alley went north, and he followed it to get off of Main Street. Across a parking lot, and then over a construction fence about an old home to exit through a gate into a residential street he rapidly tried to put as much distance as he could from the scene without drawing additional attention.

  He was very conscious of his description, but decided there wasn’t much he could do about it. Even with a change of clothes, he was still a young man carrying a backpack with a big dog. And he needed what was in his pack. Being without his stuff for just a day had caused all kinds of consternation. Hiding in plain sight wasn’t going to be a good option.

  But “the fixture” provided a great alternative. Helmet had informed him that a fixture was a plot of land in which foxes were chased on horseback. Most hunts possessed several with unique names, such as “Beaver Run” or “Whitetail Fields”, but the acres north of Fox Ridge School were so premiere Westburg Hunt referred to it simply as “the” fixture. There was much land and good cover where his drab clothes would blend in, and not much in the way of prying eyes. It was summer so he didn’t need to worry about balancing a fire, which might give him away, against freezing to death. He had just stocked up his pack with provisions, and there’d be plenty of streams to fill his CamelBak. He had a pretty serious sidearm and lots of training in its use. No small town police department would get him out of there without a heck of a lot of help. As in activating National Guard units to supplement county deputies and state police. Kelton doubted his most recent sin would provoke that level of response.

  But he wasn’t slipping away. He’d been leaned upon and he knew it. Which meant his suspicion of something amiss with the young blond teen was now more of a practical certainty. Kelton wouldn’t leave her, a vulnerable girl, even though he had no idea who she was yet. He wasn’t sure where that motivation came from. Part of it was a deeply engrained sense of chivalry from the officer’s ethos he still carried with him. Maybe it was an act of imitating Patrol Sergeant Hesp who had protected him and his mother from the hazards of the neighborhood when Kelton was young, despite giving up on all the other duty and country stuff he’d been inoculated with at West Point? Maybe, as he struggled to find himself and a structure to make sense of life, he was merely latching on to a simple model of some modern-day knight errant, paying homage to no liege?

  Kelton knew the other part for certain. Someone had ordered a noose be put about his dog. That was one favor Kelton was apt to return.

  CHAPTER—8

  Arabell Harper drove home from the Westburg Emergency Room after her shift ended at midnight. While anxious to be home, she didn’t speed west down Main Street. The Ford Bronco had big wide tires and four-wheel drive, getting her safely to work in all kinds of weather conditions. As a nurse, that was essential. But it also had a high center of gravity and couldn’t corner worth a damn.

  Still, she hoped to be home before her family went off to sleep without her. It was a job where she was surrounded by people, but always felt a little lonely. A place where she cared for everyone, but no one looked after her. Saturday nights were her best chance for some family connection, without school or city business in the morning, unless there was a horse show on Sunday. Friday’s were good, too, but sometimes the family didn’t manage to stay up after the long week.

  She passed the dark and deserted city park, and heard the glass bottles on the back seat chatter as she made the left turn onto the Full Cry Road bypass stretching south of the town. She always stopped at the liquor store before work, as after her shift was too late for the state-run stores. She knew she shouldn’t have as much alcohol as she did, but it helped her cope with the off hours’ routine. When Abriella left to college in a few years, she’d have to adjust to never seeing her daughter. Maybe that would be easier than the constant trying and failing to see her on nights like these.

  To her relief, some lights in the house were on. As she pulled up the drive, her high beams caught Indy’s white coat grazing in the back pasture and a bunny scurried across the lawn. Her husband’s truck was hooked up to the old horse trailer by her daughter’s Ford. Justin had been excited to get a good deal on the old cruiser, but she wasn’t sure she wanted her daughter having a car with such a big back seat. Nevertheless, with the cost of the school, insurance for a teen driver, property taxes on a hobby farm, saving for college and caring for a horse it was the absolute best they could do. And honestly, she thought hesitating behind the wheel for a moment, the best was pretty darn good enough tonight. The bottles would stay on her backseat.

  She could hear the television as she set her purse down on the kitchen table. The living room was dim as she came in, illuminated only by the flickering of the television screen. Abriella lay on the couch with an afghan pulled over her, blurry eyes lazily following the antics of a late night comic. Justin lay in his chair sound asleep with a book open across his chest.

  “Hey Mom,” greeted her daughter. It took an effort for the girl to sit up, wrapping the blanket about her. Abriella found the remote down on the floor and hit the mute button.

  Arabell sat down on the couch next to her and was asked about her day.

  “The town is abuzz. Seems Mr. McFife tried to capture this giant German Shepherd that was over a hundred pounds and terrorizing people on Main Street. He was badly bitten high on his arm and seemed to think it required surgery. I’ve been giving him pain medicine all shift long while he and the doctors talked about options.”

  “Isn’t that the bozo we had to help last year when those horses down the road got loose?”

  “That isn’t very nice. Not everyone is a horse person.”

  “But it’s true though. He said their electric fence was fine after inspecting it twice when it was clear wires were laying in the dirt and another attached to a t-post without an insulator. Anyone who’s animal control here should at least know that much. And he was wasting our time helping when they were just going to be getting out again unless he gave them a ticket to fix their fence.”

  Arabell conceded the point and gave a nod.

  “Kind of scary with a monster dog on the loose though, huh? Like some Halloween horror movie. Maybe call it the ‘Wolf of Westburg’ and have it gobbling up the teen girls of Fox Ridge School?”

  Abriella smiled briefly
. Like most teens, she liked slumber parties with slasher films. Especially in the fall when it got dark so soon and you could watch a couple movies without staying up too late. Her daughter’s friend Vicky, Dr. Potter’s daughter, might like that plot for one of her film projects.

  “Did the dog hurt a lot of people before Mr. McFife got there?”

  Arabell considered again. Westburg didn’t have much of a police department. The overwhelming majority of their calls were something animal related like abused horses or parking tickets on Main Street. A little excitement went a long way. Her daughter’s question forced her to present all the evidence so she could make up her own mind.

  “No one else was in the emergency room from it, but Bobby described screams and chaos when he wasn’t telling me how badly his wounds hurt. A fellow police officer interviewed him around dinner time. Witnesses said there was this homeless guy with a dog, flashing big money around. Taking pizza and ice cream that he wanted and threatening to sick the dog on people who wouldn’t let him have his way. Some restaurant patrons supposedly felt really intimidated.”

  “I wouldn’t believe that guy if he told me the sky was blue. He’d probably try and give us a ticket for Candi and Laci not having dog licenses because he can’t tell they are goats,” said Abriella softly. Her eyes were heavy and she could stay up no longer.

  Arabell kissed her, forced her up from the couch and listened as the soft footsteps disappeared upstairs.

  “Quite the shift, Dear?” Justin looked over from his recliner.

  “How much did you hear?”

  “All of it. I was just trying to give you a little mother daughter time together while I rested my eyelids.”

  “The lawn looks good.”

  “Thanks. I did some laundry, too. I’d hoped to get to the new shelves in the utility room but wanted to read over some papers for Monday’s meeting. Won’t manage to tomorrow with trailering Indy over to the school.”

  “Do you have time for that, Justin?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he said firmly. “I have all the time in the world for that. It means so much to her to be with her friends. Especially since we may have to break bad news to her come fall.”

  Arabell nodded. Justin made a good middle class living, and so did she. But the expenses were getting to be too much. They knew it would break her heart. Even now she was losing ground with her lifelong best friend, missing out on living together and joint riding lessons. But something had to give and after the discounted summer session was over their daughter would be going to public school.

  “What’s Monday’s issue?”

  “The classic haves against the haves not conundrum of any public servant. A golf course resort to bring in revenue for social programs and jobs. But it’s right next to the fixture and the hunt has ridden on it for decades with the landowner’s permission. Now that they’ve passed away, that tradition seems at an end. The wealthy and powerful will fight tooth and nail against such development encroachment as an assault on the town’s character. Right now I feel pressed upon by both sides and a wrong choice can leave me unemployed come fall.”

  “I see. Well, let’s go to bed. You won’t figure it out getting a back ache because you slept in a chair.”

  Larry Turner also wasn’t sleeping in a bed come the small hours of Sunday morning, but the builder no longer had a wife to get after him about such things. He’d grabbed a light blanket that had come from an international flight years ago when he was fruitlessly looking for big work abroad and drifted off in his backyard hammock. Some ants explored a couple of empty beer cans on the ground beneath him and the charcoal in the grill had gone out hours ago although the odor of burnt fat hung in the heavy night air. The neighborhood was black and sounded of crickets.

  His cell phone startled him and he had to grasp both sides of the net bed to keep from dumping himself on the ground. The ringer’s volume was turned all the way up to be heard over his truck engine or equipment at construction sites, but against neighborhood sleepy time it was truly deafening. Some distant dogs barked in response. He put a finger on the screen’s green circle and made a sideways swiping motion.

  “Turner,” he croaked and rubbed at his eyes.

  “Mr. Turner, it’s so nice to finally meet the builder of our Westburg project,” came from the phone. It was a flat voice, with no inflection or warmth. And certainly not near as friendly sounding as the words it said would appear to be.

  “I’m sorry. You’re catching me waking up. Who’s this?”

  Another voice came on, a familiar voice this time. The lawyer’s, Kenny Martin, he’d been working with on the golf course project. The man who quickly and faithfully paid his bills.

  “Mr. Turner, my client recognizes the project is at a critical phase. While I have conveyed to the best of my ability your reports and assessments, my client wishes to hear from you first hand and remain anonymous.”

  “Right, Sir. I understand,” said Larry swinging his legs over to stand up. Pacing a few steps would help shake the cobwebs from his brain.

  The client asked, “What’s your assessment on the approval of the building permits and the construction loan?”

  “The loan isn’t so much the issue. If the permits are approved, and your financials are in order, then Mr. Grunfeld will be happy to jump on the opportunity. He holds a lot of sway here. He’s on most boards of local charity and civic organizations and is the de facto financial advisor for the city government.

  He has warned me the council has resisted large deals before. The Full Cry Market here caused a major hubbub a few years back and it was only a gas station convenience store. The council required the parking lot be doubled in size from the original plan to make sure there was room for horse trailer traffic to pull in and easily turnaround.

  How that line of thinking translates into our golf course, I’m not entirely sure. Certainly there aren’t a lot of local golfers. That means to make the economics work, you will need accessibility to visitors. Traffic around D.C. is awful. The helicopter taxi will be a key point. Even if they are okay with the land use.

  The agenda for Monday’s meeting is posted on the council website. There are two men sharing viewpoints and answering council questions from the local horse community. One is Gregory Bartholomew. I mentioned him to Mr. Martin last week. He’s the Master of the Westburg Hunt. Probably one of the most politically powerful men in the area who has no governmental authority whatsoever. Most of the community’s social circles revolve about the Hunt and its activities. And it’s not just the economic elite. They provide a lot of teen jobs with hound care and clearing bridle trails. So many past members are in retirement homes the Hunt does community service cleanups and social events for them. They do a lot of conservation activities and champion environmental causes. Christmas caroling down Main Street on horseback. You might think of him as some kind of weird category of local clergy, like a Bishop. Whatever he says, most of the citizens will be quick to follow.

  The other is Helmut Muench. I haven’t told you about him before. He just appeared on the speaker’s list last night. He’s an old German guy who teaches riding lessons at the girl’s school. Fox Ridge drives a lot of the local economy here, and the quality of its riding program is a key factor in attracting students. If you’re a teacher, grounds keeper, or own a shop downtown, you want to keep them going strong.

  I can’t say that either will necessarily sink us. I don’t know for sure what they will say or how significant it will be weighed in the council’s decision. It certainly won’t help us. The horse community stands to lose more than gain from the project.”

  “Do you expect a final decision on Monday?” asked the client.

  “No. Even if they are super excited about the project, or hate it, they will leave the door open for us to come back. They’ll want to see how people react to the final details in the newspapers and talk to their constituents one last time. I wouldn’t expect another town hall type meeting given the poor tur
nout last year when we made the concept public. But if there is a sticking point, procedurally we generally withdraw the project from consideration before they vote upon it. Then we can make modifications and come back.”

  “What happens if we have them vote and it doesn’t pass? How would we be able to proceed?”

  “It’s better to withdraw. If they vote it down and you want to come back with modifications, you must start the entire process over. The application fee has to be repaid, which is trivial; the real cost is going back to square one on the timeline and waiting for your turn on the agenda again.”

  “If they don’t vote, how do we know who would oppose us?”

  “Do you have some special influencers on the payroll?” scoffed Larry.

  Kenny Martin quickly jumped in with an icy voice, “Just answer the question, Mr. Turner.”

  “Well, it is politics in there more than business. Even without voting, we’ll see who supports and who doesn’t. They will make their views clear. A lot will be determined by how Mr. Harper leans. He’s played things close to the vest so far. He hasn’t made any public comments and no rumors from his office have been circulating that I’ve heard. He did grow up local and not particularly well to do. He’s generally for proposals that bring opportunities to blue-collar workers.”

  The attorney crisply replied, “That’s all we had. Thank you, Mr. Turner.”

  “Is there anything,” began Larry but the call disconnected before he could complete the question.

  Since he was now up, he decided to go back in the house. He used the restroom, drank some water, and then sprawled across the bed on his stomach without bothering to turn down the covers or remove his clothes.

  Helmut was also sleeping in a chair, in the parent’s loft, of the indoor riding arena. He’d dropped his cane next to the chair when he’d nodded off. Every once in a while, the old face scars would itch from sweat and his hand would rub by reflex without him waking up. The venerable German even snored, but no one could hear it over the pounding music. It was a summer Saturday night at Fox Ridge School and his presence was the result of a compromise made many years ago between him and Mrs. Grant.