by Susan Conant
Shoot a dog? I almost yelled the words aloud. Me? Shoot a dog?
And yet my right hand went to the holster, groped, and closed firmly around the revolver. To protect this helpless golden, this emaciated, pregnant bitch, could I do it? Even if I wanted to, could I aim and pull the trigger? Kill a dog? I glanced at Champ, dropped the golden’s leash, and anchored it with my foot. Then I reached back into the pack and finally located a rawhide bone. Would Champ go for it? My right hand was so drenched in sweat that the rawhide felt slimy. I slowly raised my arm and was just aiming the rawhide at a spot halfway to the Simmses’ house when I heard the sound of approaching engines. My arm froze. Cars? Maybe not. Loud and powerful engines. An oil delivery truck? But at daybreak? Oil companies don’t—
Before I could complete the thought, the first cruiser appeared on the road. Behind it were a second cruiser, two vans, a station wagon, and probably several other vehicles as well. I didn’t stop to count them. Oblivious to the signs of a raid on his master’s puppy mill, Champ was circling and snarling again. He’d spotted the rawhide bone in my right hand. If I didn’t throw it fast, he’d go for it—and probably take my fingers with it. My aim was rough this time. The rawhide sailed high in the air and toward the house. My eyes followed its arc. I hoped Champ’s did, too. If he lost sight of the bone? He’d assume I’d been teasing, and he’d look for the rawhide in the last place he’d seen it: my right hand. And he wouldn’t search gently, either.
But Champ started toward the rawhide, or so it seemed. As soon as he found it, I intended to bolt for the woods and the Bronco.
But the back door of the house banged open. Walter Simms had seen or heard the cruisers and vans. Only a few minutes earlier, he must have awakened briefly, let Champ out, and gone back to bed. At the approach of the vehicles, he’d evidently thrown on his jeans and a pair of shoes, snatched up his shotgun, and decided to get out as fast as he could. He hadn’t even pulled on a T-shirt. He was facing away from me, scanning the area on the opposite side of the house and softly calling, “Champ! Here, boy!” Simms hadn’t yet seen me, but the second he turned, I’d be in plain view. Police cruisers at the front door and someone—anyone—at the rear? And with a dead body on the property? I’d seen the body, and I’d seen how Simms treated his dogs, all but Champ, that is. Unless I acted fast, Simms would turn, aim, and shoot me.
Only four or five yards ahead of me, Champ was ignoring his master’s voice and still searching for the rawhide. I had a few dog biscuits left in my pockets. Could I lure the Rottie toward me? The dog was a well-fed, obviously untrained pet. “Champ’s not like them others. Champ’s my dog,” Simms had said. I could almost hear him. With the police at the door, Simms was delaying his escape by searching for Champ. A man who’d do that, it seemed to me, could be trusted not to risk shooting that dog. Could I use Champ as a safety shield? Or should I make for cover? The woods? Or back into the golden’s filthy shed?
But the Ladysmith tempted me. Walter Simms had caused immeasurable suffering. He’d starved the dogs I’d seen tonight. He’d undoubtedly caused the death of many others. He’d probably murdered a man. He was on the verge of escape, and I could stop him. If he caught sight of me? But I could take him out first. I knew I could. I could pick him off like a scurrying rat. I am, in fact, a very good shot.
The golden, who’d been standing patiently by my side, gave a brief, soft whimper of pain. Slowly and calmly, I drew out the Ladysmith, raised it, cocked it, and took final aim at the dead center of Simms’s naked back. My hands and mouth had gone dry, but I was eerily calm. I felt complete confidence in my aim. Otherwise, though, for that half second, I felt nothing at all. The Smith & Wesson manual advises never to touch the trigger until you’re ready to fire. My target was sharp, bare, and oversized, as if an anatomist had stepped in to replace Simms’s lean, live body with a twice-life-size drawing—muscular system, trunk portion, dorsal view, outer layers stripped back to reveal the man beneath the skin. My finger had moved inside the trigger guard when an authoritative male voice shouted, “Halt! Drop it and put your arms up!”
And Walter Simms obeyed. So did Champ, who abandoned his search for the rawhide bone and tore toward his master, across the mounds of trash and the tussocks of dry grass washed yellow in the morning light. A uniformed man appeared around the far corner of the house. Then another. And another. I decocked the Ladysmith very carefully—dangerous procedure, that—stowed it in the holster, picked up my backpack and the golden’s leash, and led her to the trail in the woods. I wasn’t going to stick around to have some veterinarian tell me that this golden couldn’t be saved. In rescuing her, I’d almost ended up shooting Walter Simms. I have no doubt that if I’d fired, I would have killed him.
30
Although I had a key to the door of Steve Delaney’s apartment above the clinic, I was standing in the parking lot, hurling gravel at his bedroom window, and calling his name. Steve has two dogs, India, his U.D. shepherd, and an incredibly sweet, timid pointer bitch named Lady. Kenneled downstairs were Steve’s hospitalized canine patients and a few boarders. Once the clinic opened for the day, there’d be dozens of dogs coming in. I was so terrified of infecting them with whatever organisms my clothes and hands might carry from my predawn raid that I’d removed my boots and left them in the car before I’d stepped out. I wasn’t even willing to touch the doorbell.
“Steve, wake up!” I pelted the window with another spray of gravel. “Wake up!” My voice sounded high and hoarse.
India, who must have been maintaining her usual vigil over Steve’s deep sleep, finally pressed her nose to the window, assessed the situation, and vanished. A few seconds later, Steve repeated her performance and then appeared at the door. Except for his scalp, which remained almost hairless from Rhonda’s clippers, he hadn’t shaved, and his eyes were heavy. He was barefoot, but he’d put on a pair of tan cords, and he leaned placidly against the door frame slowly buttoning his white shirt.
All of a sudden, tears were running down my face. I’d rescued Missy—I’d brought the golden to Steve—I’d done my part; it was his turn now. I’ll bet that when the patient’s anesthetic wears off, the surgeon’s does, too. “Steve, I have two dogs here.” I sobbed and caught my breath. “One is very sick, but I can’t bring her in—Steve, I’ve been to a puppy mill—It was worse than—”
He started toward me.
“Don’t touch me!” I ordered him frantically. “I’m covered in filth. You’ll make the other dogs sick. Stay away from me!” By then, though, his arms were wrapped around me. I shoved against his chest and tried to push him away, but, malamutes or no malamutes, his arms are stronger than mine. “Don’t touch me!” I yelled.
“Hey, let me worry about that,” he said calmly. Then he asked to see the dogs. Have I ever told you how much I love Steve? He is honestly the greatest veterinarian in the world. Even so, I was scared to have him examine the golden, terrified of what he’d conclude. Steve and I met the day I brought Vinnie to this clinic for the last time. I held her in my arms while he gave her the peaceful release she wanted. Vinnie was eager to leave; she could hardly wait. Steve was her celestial travel agent. The pain at the end was mine, intense and physical.
“The golden is in bad shape,” I warned him. “She’s pregnant, and she’s starving, and God knows what else. The malamute is okay, I think, except for whatever she picked up there. She wasn’t there very long. Steve—”
“Keys?” Steve was peering into the back of the Bronco.
“What?”
“Your keys. Unless you want me to examine the dogs through—”
“No, I guess not.”
“And put some shoes on,” he said. “You’re shaking.”
The temperature must have been close to freezing, but my socks were wool—warm when it’s wet. I looked down. Steve was barefoot in a puddle of water.
I handed him the keys. “Steve, there was a dead man there,” I blurted out. “At the puppy mill, in one of the sheds,
there was a body. A tall man with weird white hair. Steve, I think I know who he was.”
But Steve wasn’t listening. He’d opened the tailgate and half-crawled into the Bronco. His voice rumbled softly; he was talking to the dogs. He cares more about live dogs than he does about dead men. So do I, of course. So do I.
An hour later, I was sitting at Steve’s kitchen table drinking sweet, milky tea and patting Lady, the pointer. I didn’t even have to move my hand. I held it still, and Lady kept running her smooth, soft head under it. Pointers make wonderful companions, beautiful, intelligent, affectionate, and, if need be, self-patting, too. I must have looked like hell. My hair was wet from a long, hot, decontaminating shower, and I was dressed in a vet tech’s baggy blue-green pants and top, the only clothes available in anything close to my size. Everything I’d worn at the puppy mill was sealed in a trash bag for me to take home and empty into a strong solution of chlorine bleach. I’d reached Rita, who reported that when she’d been filling the dogs’ bowls from the big bag of food in the closet, Kimi had somehow managed to weasel her way in, stick her muzzle in the bag, grab a gigantic mouthful, dash away, and then toss the food all over the floor. Rowdy had then decided to claim his share of the scattered kibble. Rita had wisely let them fight it out. The food had vanished in seconds, neither dog had been hurt, and Rita was never, never feeding those monsters again. As I’ve mentioned, people are the real challenge. I’d instructed Rita, but she’d ignored me. First you tie up the dogs, or you put them on a down-stay. Only then do you open the closet. But I apologized to Rita, thanked her, made sure that Rowdy and Kimi had water, and thanked her again.
The door to the inside stairs opened, and Steve appeared. He’d rescheduled his morning surgery to give himself time to check out the golden and Missy. “The malamute’s overweight,” he told me. “Otherwise, she’s fine. Something could turn up later, and we should check a stool sample sometime, but that’s it.”
“The golden?”
Steve leaned against the door. His expression turned professional. He folded his arms and avoided my gaze.
“Steve, I know you have to make these decisions sometimes, and I know she is just … she is so weak. I couldn’t tell if … Steve, if you have to …”
“It’s not a question of euthanasia,” Steve said, taking a seat at the table. When he grins, his eyes narrow and, honest to God, they twinkle. A wave of exhaustion nearly knocked me over. Steve got serious. “We’re going to have to watch for eclampsia. And bitches like this are prone to mastitis. They’re getting her cleaned up now. I’ll take another look at her later. She’s emaciated, probably anemic, loaded with parasites. Holly, uh, who owns this dog?”
“I do. For now, I own both of those dogs.” I hate lying to Steve. “They don’t exactly belong to me, but they belong with me. Is that good enough?”
“For now,” he said.
“Honest to God, Steve, I am too tired to tell you about it. Look, I cannot stay awake. I was just waiting to … it’ll be … it’ll probably be on the news tonight. Maybe it’s on the radio now. Steve, I’m going home. I’ll call you when I wake up. Can I … will you keep the malamute here? Just for a while?”
He reached for my hair, squeezed, and dripped water on my face. “Not a chance,” he said. “The minute you’re gone, I’ll turn her loose on the street. It’s the kind of responsible veterinary practice I always run.”
I can remember rejecting Steve’s offer of a pair of his size twelve shoes. I have a blurry memory of driving home in my stocking feet, or rather, with my feet in a pair of Steve’s socks. He’d assured me that if I didn’t wear my boots into the house, it was okay to expose myself to the dogs. I believed him, and, of course, I’d showered and changed my clothes, but I still felt contaminated. And desperately tired. When I entered my kitchen, Kimi and Rowdy went wild, but the scent of India and Lady on the blue-green baggies distracted them, and I managed to stay on my feet. While the dogs were in the yard, I remembered that when I’d been driving home, I’d forgotten to listen to the radio. Then the dogs came tearing in. I remember feeding them.
At four-thirty in the afternoon, I awoke to the sound of heavy breathing and the sense that four happy brown eyes were trained on me. Rowdy was stretched out on the bed with his head on my pillow, and Kimi was sitting on the floor with her face about two inches from mine. When I stirred and opened my eyes, Kimi leaped over me and landed on Rowdy, who threw her a warning stare, growled, lunged, and ended up with his snarling jaws encircling her muzzle. She squirmed, kicked, flew through the air, landed on the floor, sprang back onto the bed, nipped at Rowdy’s ears, dashed to the far edge of the bed, and crouched. I wrapped my arms around my head and braced myself. Just as the iron bulk of Kimi’s body hit my back, Rowdy twisted around and kicked me hard with his hind legs, and then the two dogs became a single roaring mass of teeth and fur that abruptly disappeared from the bedroom, sped back, crashed into a wall, veered around, and vanished. Play, of course. This is how malamutes play. I sat up in bed. Every bone in my body ached. A pile of white dust lay on the floor beneath the new dent the dogs had made in the wall. Now and then it occurs to me that instead of taking all these handling and obedience classes, most of us should study something really useful to the dog owner, for example, plastering, auto reupholstery, or invisible weaving.
Despite the shower at Steve’s, I still felt filthy, as if I’d breathed and drunk the evil stench of the puppy mill. The taste lingered in my mouth. My body smelled like rancid fat. I started to fill the bathtub with hot water and impulsively squirted in some foaming skin conditioner left by my cousin Leah on her last visit, but the rising bubbles reminded me of Diane Sweet and Walter Simms, so I drained the tub, stood under the shower, washed my hair twice, and scoured my body with soap. I rinsed off, wrapped myself in towels, brushed my teeth three times, and burned my lips and gums with full strength mint mouthwash.
After I’d dressed and fed the dogs, I carried the portable TV from the guest room to the kitchen, made coffee, and drank it while I watched the five o’clock news. At least one of the vehicles in the caravan on Old County Lane had obviously carried a camera crew and equipment. The bad color of my little TV turned the Simmses’ house—and everything else—a pale, sickly green. According to the voice-over, today’s early-morning raid on a suspected puppy mill in Afton had resulted in the seizure of sixty-eight dogs from the home of Walter Simms and his sister, Cheryl. The coffee cup almost fell from my hand. Sixty-eight dogs?
The camera now panned the back of the property, and the voice went on: The raid had taken an unexpected and sinister twist when authorities searching for dogs had come upon the body of a recently deceased man, identified as Joseph Willard Rinehart, 55, of Burlington. Miniaturized and washed in green, the shed appeared.
Then the little TV showed tiny lime-tinted figures, human and canine, heading toward a row of vans and station wagons. The announcer said that the tip on what officials were calling a puppy mill had come from Jane M. Appleyard of the Eleanor J. Colley Humane Society, who credited an unidentified friend of the Simms family with serving as informant.
A friend of the family? I wished the unrelenting flow of the story would stop and give me time to work things out. A friend? Someone who dropped by to watch the Celtics? Who sat around drinking Miller Lite? I couldn’t imagine anyone liking Walter and Cheryl enough to ignore the nauseating odor for the sake of their company. I couldn’t even think of Walter and Cheryl as a family, never mind as a family with friends.
Mrs. Appleyard’s face filled the screen. Her hair stood up in rough clumps. In the powerful, dulcet tones of old Bryn Mawr, she said, “We’ve known about this situation for a long time, but, in the absence of probable cause, when one’s suggestions are ignored, there isn’t a great deal one can do.” The name, address, and phone number of the Colley Society flashed on the screen, and one of the TV anchors, a woman, said that the Colley Society was appealing for donations of money, supplies, and grooming services to c
are for the rescued dogs. She ended on a firmly conclusive note, as if she’d done her part, and the male anchor took over. I watched as a still shirtless Walter Simms ducked into a cruiser and was driven away. The polished male voice said that Simms had been taken into custody and that Rinehart’s death was being treated as a homicide.
The female anchor began to report on delays in the construction of the new harbor tunnel. I channel-hopped in search of more news about the raid, but found none. Then I checked my answering machine, which blinked red with messages. The first was from Betty Burley, who apologized for not helping with Missy, wondered if I’d made any progress, and suggested that if Missy hadn’t turned up, we might want to consider advertising for her and offering a reward. The second was from a guy who’d seen the Malamute Rescue notice posted at a pet supply and grooming shop in Newton and who wanted me to call him. Most of the people who call about adopting a rescue malamute want an obedience-trained watchdog under a year old who’ll get along great with six cats and stay in the yard if he’s turned loose, but I wrote down the name and number, anyway. Next, Gloria Loss reported that she’d quit her job. Kevin Dennehy had called to ask where I was. Sally Brand wanted me to return the photos I’d borrowed from her.
The machine lacks a date and time stamp. I had no idea when anyone had called. The last message, though, was from Steve, who said that it was three o’clock and that the golden was loaded with whipworm and coc-cidia, among other things, but that he didn’t want to hit her hard with worm medication because she was within a few weeks of whelping. He’d wait until the puppies were born and then treat the whole family. What the bitch needed now was improved nutrition, and that’s what she was getting.