“Yes.”
“Not that I know of.”
“Good. That’s a relief.” She turned the key in the cabinet lock. “I was afraid there’d been some disappearances we hadn’t heard about.”
“Well, like I said, none that I know of.” He zipped his case, lifted it off the counter, and turned toward the door.
“One other thing before you go,” Rachel said.
Sullivan hesitated before turning back to her. “Yeah?”
“I think it would be a good idea for you to bring all your records in so we can make copies, and in the future I’d like to keep duplicate copies here routinely.” He would fight her on this, Rachel was sure. He wouldn’t win.
Sullivan looked directly into her eyes now, pinning her with a cold stare. “Why? What brought this on?”
God, the man had an intimidating manner. If Rachel worked for him instead of the other way around, she would avoid contact as much as possible. “It’s the proper business procedure. This is my practice, and I’m accountable for every aspect of it. I don’t want things going on that I’m not aware of.”
“Are you accusing me of something?”
“Of course not. I—”
“If you think I’m incompetent, just say so. You could’ve gotten rid of me when you bought the place.”
Rachel took a moment to breathe deeply. He had good reason for his resentment. It wasn’t personal. “I’ve never said you’re incompetent, and I’ve never thought so, not for a second. Look. Let’s clear the air once and for all. You wanted to buy the clinic. I was an outsider and I ended up with it. If you don’t like the way things turned out, I understand. But I own the practice, and I’m legally responsible for what every employee does on the job, whether you’re working in the building or outside. So please, bring in your records to be copied, and keep copies of all your future records on file here.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Sullivan pivoted toward the door.
He might walk out on her again, but Rachel wouldn’t let him have the last word. “I’m glad we understand each other,” she said to his back.
Sometimes, Rachel thought as the door swung shut behind him, she envied her patients the ability to produce a deep growl or a wet hiss.
***
The full moon cast a bright silvery glow over the pastures and cornfields as Rachel and Joe Dolan sped past in the county animal control van. Tom rode in a cruiser ahead of them. They would spend at least an hour searching for the dogs, but Tom and Joe had something else going on later in the evening that Tom refused to talk about. Rachel was sure he was planning a raid on a dogfight, and the thought of the violence that might erupt scared her witless.
“We don’t really need security, do we?” Joe asked. “If Ethan Hall’s told his pals to back off.”
“Tom’s not sure they have,” Rachel said. “Ethan probably didn’t tell anybody to set our house on fire, but somebody did. Those people enjoy scaring us too much to stop. They’re probably beyond listening to Ethan.”
Joe didn’t answer, and in the silence Rachel felt sure his thoughts were taking the same track as hers. If anyone wanted to hurt her and Joe, Tom alone wouldn’t be much protection.
Back at Tom’s farm, every light in the house was burning and several neighbors, including Tom’s uncle and a couple of retired deputies, had a poker game going in the living room. The house, at least, was safe for now. But what would they encounter out here on the dark back roads of Mason County?
Relax. Concentrate on the job at hand. What they were doing was necessary, not only for the safety of the feral pack but also for the safety of Mason County’s citizens and the local farmers’ livestock. The dogs had to be captured.
A couple of sightings had been reported tonight in the southern half of the county, not far from Tom’s place. Rachel knew this part of the county better than any other because she had lived out here on the McKendrick horse farm for more than a year before moving in with Tom. Many of the people in this area grew crops and raised livestock for their own use and for sale at the county farmer’s market. Some were younger couples who had day jobs and tended their farms on the weekends. Others worked full-time on land their families had owned for generations. It wasn’t an easy way to make a living. Losing anything, from eggs to livestock, could create a hardship.
Rachel’s cell phone rang, and she dug it out of her shirt pocket.
Tom was calling from the car ahead of them. “I just heard from dispatch,” he said. “The dogs are on the Buckham farm right now. It’s right down the road.”
Rachel passed the message to Joe, and he sped up, staying close behind Tom’s cruiser.
“The Buckhams have got calves,” Joe told her. “They haven’t lost any yet, but one of them got its hindquarters torn up pretty bad the last time the dogs came around. Dr. Sullivan had to patch it up.”
“Let’s go get the alpha dog,” Rachel said, sounding more confident than she felt.
“He looks like a real mean son of a bitch.”
“That he does.” Rachel’s mouth had gone dry. Mrs. Turner seemed sure she could handle the dog. She probably could, after he was locked in a cage. Rachel was more concerned about whether she and Joe could get him into that cage.
The Buckhams’ small wood frame farmhouse sat close to the road, with rolling hills spread out beyond it in the moonlight, looking like a spot the entire modern world had passed by. At the entrance to the gravel driveway, a tin mailbox on a wooden post leaned to one side.
Even before Joe powered down his window, Rachel heard the dogs baying.
The elderly farmer emerged from the house and hurried over to Joe’s van. “You got here in the nick of time. I penned up my cows to keep the calves safe, but those dogs just went right over the fence. Hurry, before they kill one of my calves.”
“We’ll get rid of them, Mr. Buckham,” Joe said.
With Tom leading, they raced past the house toward the pen. The noise rose in volume, dogs baying and yipping, calves bleating, frantic cows bellowing. Joe raised his voice to be heard over the racket pouring in through his open window. “I don’t think we have to hide. They’re too busy to notice us.”
Joe and Tom braked their vehicles twenty feet from the pen. Rachel watched, horrified, as the cows and calves roiled and stumbled, with dogs nipping at their legs and flanks.
Joe lifted the tranquilizer gun from the rack behind their seats. “Getting a shot won’t be easy,” he said. “I need to get up higher—”
He flung open his door. Dart gun in hand, he mounted the hood of the van. Tom clambered up beside him with a handheld spotlight and focused it on the pen.
Holding her breath, Rachel watched Joe take aim. He released a dart. A split second later a dog yelped, then let out a long howl. “I got him!” Joe yelled. “I got the leader.”
In the confusion, Rachel couldn’t see which animal Joe had hit.
The other dogs panicked and jumped at the fence, clawing their way over. Joe reloaded, aimed again. A dart caught one of the fleeing dogs in the flank.
In seconds, the rest of the pack vanished, leaving behind the two Joe had darted. Rachel jumped out with her medical case. She sprinted to the nearest dog, the one outside the pen. A medium-sized Lab mix. She touched its chest, confirmed it was breathing, then ran to the gate of the pen.
Tom and Joe went in ahead of her. They herded the cows out of the way while Rachel dropped to her knees beside the leader of the feral pack. He was solid black, filthy from head to tail, undernourished but probably well over a hundred pounds, with a pit bull face and rottweiler body. He breathed in ragged gulps.
Rachel yanked the dart from his flank, then pulled a muzzle from her case and slipped it over the dog’s nose and mouth.
His head jerked up. He shook off the muzzle and bared his teeth. A growl sounded deep in his throat.
“Oh my god.” Rachel scooted backward. “Joe! He’s not under!”
“Rachel!” Tom cried. He ran to her side, grabbed her and
pulled her back from the dog.
The animal struggled to his feet, swayed, and lunged. Rachel and Tom jumped out of his path and hit the fence. Trapped. Tom yanked his pistol from his holster.
“Don’t shoot him!” Rachel cried. “Joe, dart him again!”
The dog wobbled for a moment, then regained his balance. Snarling, he threw himself at them again, his bared teeth glinting in the moonlight.
Joe fired a dart into his flank. The dog spun, teeth snapping, trying to get at the dart. Within seconds, he dropped to the ground.
The three of them stayed back, watching the animal. The cows complained and bumped into each other.
“Is he really out this time?” Tom asked.
Rachel ran her tongue over her dry lips. She could hear the beat of her pulse in her temples. “I think so.” She scooped the muzzle off the ground.
“Be careful,” Tom said.
With Tom on one side and Joe on the other, hovering like bodyguards, Rachel knelt and buckled the muzzle onto the dog.
“Get him in the van, and I’ll take care of the other one.” Rachel jumped to her feet and ran out to the second dog. Sweeping a flashlight beam over it, she realized it was a pregnant female, her abdomen bulging below visible ribs. She had bare patches on her flank and shoulder, and her dirty coat looked thin all over her body. Rachel pulled out the tranquilizer dart and fastened a muzzle in place. “Poor little things,” she murmured, laying a hand on the bulge. They would be born malnourished and underdeveloped. In the meantime, they sapped energy from a mother who didn’t have it to give.
Rachel rode in the back of the van and administered vaccines to both dogs as Joe sped to the sanctuary. She also drew two vials of blood from the alpha dog for DNA tests. She studied the big male, wondering about his history and what had made him the leader of the pack. Using her flashlight, she found scars on his face, throat, chest and flanks. This dog had been in fights, probably a lot of them, and his wounds had been cleaned and repaired by an expert. Rachel believed she was looking at an escapee from the dogfighting operation.
Chapter Twenty-five
The security lights aimed at the pens cast long shadows over the alpha dog’s body. Tom crouched next to Rachel and switched on his Maglite to get a better view of the caged animal. Every part of his body bore the deep scars of a lifetime of fighting to survive. Mud and bits of leaf litter matted his black hair, and he stank of something dead and decaying.
“He looks capable of killing a grown man.” He squeezed Rachel’s shoulder. “He could have killed you tonight.”
Rachel sucked in a breath and stood abruptly. “You had a gun and Joe had the darts. I was perfectly safe.”
And scared to death, Tom thought, like I was. In his years as a cop, he’d been shot, he’d had a maniac come at him with a knife, he’d gone into places he couldn’t expect to come out of in one piece, but nothing matched the pure terror that gripped him when this dog roused from his stupor and went for Rachel.
Tom knew she would never admit how scared she’d been, and she wouldn’t want to hear about his fears for her safety. Rising, he said, “His coat’s the same color and length as the dog that attacked Hall. But all the evidence is against the whole pack being involved.”
“Right,” Rachel said. “And a dog that’s firmly established as leader of a pack isn’t likely to go out alone and attack somebody. Especially not on the command of a human. This isn’t the dog that killed Dr. Hall, and the DNA will prove it. I don’t want anybody demanding that we destroy an animal just because he could have done it.”
“I can’t promise quick action from the crime lab on the DNA. The state won’t give it priority treatment.”
Rachel sighed, and Tom watched her go through a mental process that had become familiar to him, setting aside a nagging concern and focusing on the task in front of her. Her ability to do that consistently was one of many traits he admired, regardless of how often she exasperated him.
“I wish we had somewhere to stash this guy where the rest of them couldn’t see him, hear him, or smell him,” Rachel said. “They’re going to react to his presence, and that’ll make them harder to handle. I can’t take him to the clinic. He’d have the place in an uproar. I have to put my patients first.”
Mrs. Turner walked up beside her and peered in at the black dog, wrinkling her nose. “Oo-wee. He’s been rollin’ in somethin’ that died a long time ago. I think I oughta get my Bobby out of here so he won’t have to deal with any bad influence.”
“Who’s Bobby?” Tom asked.
“The little brown one, the second one we caught.” Rachel said, gesturing toward the other end of the line of enclosures. “Mrs. Turner wants to adopt him.”
“Now wait a minute,” Tom said. “I don’t think it’s safe to rush into anything. Wait and make sure you know what the animal’s temperament is.”
“I’ve been watchin’ him,” Mrs. Turner said. “I know his nature. And I know he’d be better off livin’ in the house with me than he is out here where that beast—” She flung a hand toward the big black dog. “—can get him all riled up.”
“What makes you think your own dogs will accept him?” Tom argued.
She folded her arms and gave him a smug little smile. “They already have. I brought ’em out to visit him. They got along just fine. They was playin’ together, best they could with a fence between ’em.”
“If you feel confident about him,” Rachel said, “I don’t see any reason why you can’t take him in tonight, but don’t turn him loose in the house around your cats.”
“You don’t have to tell me to look out for my cats. It’s a big house. We’ll be just fine. And I thought about fleas too, if you’re about to bring that up. Holly’s makin’ him a nice warm bed in the basement right now. We’ll give him a bath in the mornin’. I’ve got a leash all ready to use.” Mrs. Turner set off toward the brown dog’s enclosure.
Rachel laughed. “I wondered where Holly disappeared to. They didn’t have much doubt that I’d give the okay.”
“This is dangerous,” Tom said. “I can’t believe you’re going along with it.”
“Don’t worry. I trust her instincts. She knows what she’s doing.”
Tom wasn’t so sure about Mrs. Turner’s instincts. He usually trusted Rachel’s judgment about animals, though. If she was okay with this, he should be too. But he would have a hard time watching any of the feral dogs go into people’s homes. “I hope you won’t let anybody walk off with this one,” he said, looking down at the brute in the cage.
“I don’t know what he’ll turn out to be like,” Rachel said. “He’s been abused. I think he’s been used in dogfights. Look at all those scars. His wounds were treated properly by someone who knew how to do it, but his psychological wounds won’t be so easy to deal with. He probably hates people.”
“Well, yeah, I’d say he’s already proved that to us. Christ, is he coming around already, with all that dope in him?”
The animal began to stir, snuffling and snorting as he tried to lift his head.
“He’s pretty amazing,” Rachel said, “but with two doses, I think he’ll be groggy the rest of the night. Which is just as well. He’s not going to be happy about being here.”
Tom moved the light over the dog’s scars. He’d been ripped open too many times to count. “Yeah, he’s a fighter. A veteran. But he’s been living with other dogs, hunting with them, cooperating with them to stay alive.”
“Fighting is what people forced him to do,” Rachel said, “not necessarily what he wanted to do. Do you think he could have escaped from the local operation?”
“Maybe. But he could have been dumped out here too, like the rest of the pack.”
“There’s a database of DNA from fighting dogs. We might be able to find out what part of the country he came from. That probably won’t help your investigation, but it’s one more piece of information about the trade in fighting dogs.”
Tom shone his light on his wat
ch. “If you’re done here, I’ll run you home. Joe and I have to get going.”
“You’re not going to question a suspect with the dog warden along,” Rachel said. “So what are you doing tonight?”
“I’d rather not say right now.”
He saw the flash of irritation in her face, saw her quickly extinguish it and put on a neutral expression. He knew she wasn’t done with the subject, though.
She picked up her medical bag and they started toward his car. Joe Dolan waited, leaning against his van. He and Tom were going to meet Brandon, Dennis, and several other deputies at headquarters and head out as a group to the dogfight.
Mrs. Turner and the mutt she’d named Bobby emerged from his pen as Tom and Rachel approached. She’d fastened a collar and a leash on him, apparently without any trouble. Wagging his tail, the dog strained toward Rachel. Tom tried to grab her and pull her out of harm’s way, but she shook off his hand and stooped to pet the animal. Without any fear, she scratched him and let him lick her face. Tom drew a deep breath and reminded himself that she knew animals and he had to trust her judgment.
Mrs. Turner led her charge away and Rachel pulled a tissue from her jeans pocket to wipe dog spit off her cheek. Falling into step with Tom again, she said, “You’re going to a dogfight tonight, aren’t you? You’re staging a raid.”
Tom sighed. “Yes,” he admitted. “I got a tip on a location. I’m taking a team of deputies and Joe’s going to handle the dogs.”
They stopped by his car and he opened the passenger door for her. Rachel paused before getting in. “Is it going to be dangerous?”
“Nobody’s going to get hurt.”
She ducked her head so he couldn’t see her face, couldn’t tell whether she really believed him. When she looked up at him again, she said, “You should have a vet along. I’ll go with you.”
“No. Not a chance. I don’t want you getting hurt—” He broke off, realizing his mistake.
She nodded. “So it will be dangerous. You don’t have to protect me, Tom. I’d rather know the truth. Believe it or not, I can handle it.”
“I didn’t see any reason to worry you. I’ve been on these raids before, and nobody’s ever been hurt. Nobody’ll get hurt tonight.”
Under the Dog Star: A Rachel Goddard Mystery #4 (Rachel Goddard Mysteries) Page 18