Derailed (12 page)

“Yeah, dogs have it better than us humans sometimes.”

Gilson laughed. “How about it, Harry? If you worked undercover, I could bring you in as a detective.”

Gilson's web had nearly caught me. We talked about salary, and even that was relatively sweet.

Finally, I raised the stickler. “So who would I report to?”

He leaned back and stroked his chin, a faraway look in his eyes. “Well, now, that's a little complicated. Detectives normally report to me, but technically the K-9 handlers are under Inspector Larson out of Washington, DC. But Larson's focus is on detecting explosives, preventing a tragedy before it happens.”

Hmm
. So what did that mean? Who'd really be my supervisor? Sounded like it might be Gilson. Had to admit, his whole plan sounded a lot more practical than his first pitch over the phone, and he hadn't spent the morning feeding me off-the-wall ideas or too many smart remarks. So . . . could I work for him?

Standing up and shaking hands with the captain, I assured him I'd give him my answer the next day.

“One more thing before you leave, Bentley. I want you to come meet Corky. You'll fall in love with her.”

The captain led me out and through the hallway to a room much larger than Gilson's office. Three uncaged dogs rested on the open floor of the large kennel. The two German shepherds looked up, but then put their heads back down once they saw I wasn't someone they were expecting. But the black Lab jumped up and ambled over, tale wagging, open mouth grinning as though asking if I had something for her.

“That's Corky.” Gilson stood back as I let her sniff the back of my hand, and then kneeled down to greet the dog. I gave her a few pats and a little rub below her ears. She kept looking from me to the door until I asked the attendant who was sitting behind a desk, “She need to go out?”

“No, she's just been out. She's just bored. Thinks you might take her out to play.”

“Sorry,” Gilson said. “Harry, this is Creston. We have three attendants, so someone's always here with the dogs. Creston, meet Harry Bentley. He's worked K-9 before.”

I stood up and stepped over to shake Creston's hand.

“Well, I gotta get back to the office,” Gilson said. “But feel free to stick around and spend a little more time with Corky.”

I stayed for another ten minutes getting acquainted with Corky. She had a rich black coat with a tiny white diamond in the middle of her chest. And she still had an hourglass waist with no fat—not yet, anyway. Had to watch that with Labs. She looked me in the eye, holding my gaze without being intimidated. She was calm, but eager. I liked that, as though we were carrying on a wordless conversation, agreeing we could get along, maybe even be good for each other.

“What's Corky's alert signal?” I asked Creston.

“She's trained just like the explosive detection dogs. We don't want them pawing into a bomb and blowin' it up. So, she'll sit down and point, eyes on the target, until you release her.”

“Tail straight like a pointer?”

“Nah. Tail don't count with her. Could be goin' or could be still. Just watch her eyes. It's all in her focus. When she's found something, she won't budge until you release her. The word's 'Free.'
Free, Corky!
”

The dog jerked up and looked at Creston with a what's-going-on tilt of the head, puckered eyebrows, and a slight lift of her ears.

“Sorry, girl. It's okay,” Creston said. He came over and gave her a pat. “I won't confuse her by saying her start word, but it's
s-e-e-k
.” He spelled it slowly, with enough time between each letter so it wouldn't sound like the command.

“Gotcha.” I stood up and Corky started panting and whipping that heavy old tail around as if to say, “We gonna go play now?” Work to her, of course, was just play. But she accepted my “No” signal and sat back down while I looked around the kennel. Nice place, institutional carpeting on the floor, eight separate cages. “They usually lie around out here unless one of them's not feelin' well,” Creston said. Each dog had separate food and water pans, and there were a few chew toys as well as a couple of plastic couches for the handlers.

Finally, I said good-bye and headed home, recalling the eager look in Corky's eyes. She was very different than Zorro, the German shepherd who'd been my partner years before. Zorro was good, always had my back. But he was also kind of aloof, as though he didn't really need me. Corky, on the other hand, was definitely looking for a partner.

I took a deep breath.
Slow down, Harry
, I told myself. I still needed to review the whole thing with Estelle so we could pray about it.

Praying about a decision should bring a person peace. That's what the Bible seemed to say. But had to admit as I rode home on the Metra, praying about this job possibility made me as nervous as working for Gilson. Could I trust God leading us to do the right thing? Sometimes I wished for a little handwriting on the wall.

The day had turned breezy, sunny, and the
temperature was climbing into the mid-fifties—an early break from Chicago's winter—by the time I got home from my meeting with Gilson. As I walked up to our new house, I noticed the yard for the first time since it had been covered with snow and ice. Tall yellow grass, all matted down like an old cow pasture, probably hadn't been mowed since last summer. Soggy, brown leaves packed in the corners beside the stoop and piled up under the bushes. I was tempted to spend the rest of the afternoon working outside, but I shook it off. Had to finish rehabbing the first floor. The contractors had been busy, but there was stuff I needed to do. Once that was done, we could concentrate on the outside.

As I walked into the first-floor apartment, I was amazed at how much Rodney had gotten done. “Hey, Rodney, you here? This looks great. We ready to paint?”

“Soon as that primer's dry.” He came in from the kitchen where he'd been washing out the paint pan and roller. “The kitchen guy came by to take the final measurements for the counters and cabinets. Said they can't get the floor tile you ordered, but he'll be back tomorrow to discuss an alternative. Wants you to call him with the model numbers for the fridge, dishwasher, stove, and microwave so they can be sure of the sizes.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

By the time I'd changed my clothes, the primer had dried, and we began rolling the final coat. And by the time Estelle got home, we'd finished painting the living room.

That evening after we ate supper, DaShawn disappeared to his room, supposedly to do homework, and Rodney retired to the living room, which had pretty much become his domain, and switched on the TV. I put the last of the dishes into the dishwasher and stepped up behind Estelle, who was wiping down the stovetop. Slipping my arms around her waist, I pulled her close. She tipped her head to the side with a contented
Mmm
while I leaned down and kissed her neck. But when my hands drifted up, she slapped them away. “Harry!” she whispered and broke free from my embrace. She turned with a frown on her face and nodded toward the living room.

I turned to look, but we weren't in Rodney's line of sight and the TV was loud enough he couldn't have heard anything. “What's the matter? He can't see us.”

“No, but he's still in there,” she said, all hush-hush.

“So? DaShawn's always been in the house ever since we got married.”

“That's different. He's still a kid, and besides, he has his own room. I . . . I just don't feel free with Rodney up in here like this.”

“Well, let's go into our bedroom then.” I grasped her hand and took a step to draw her after me.

She balked. “Harry, that's too obvious. We can't,” she stage-whispered.

I sighed. We'd been in our new house no more than three days, and our love life was already taking a hit. I looked Estelle in the eyes. They had a dark, pleading look in them that assured me she wasn't upset
at
me. I just needed to figure out how to reach through to her. “Then . . . let's go for a walk.” A puzzled look came over her face. “And
just
talk,” I assured her with a grin.

“So it's come to that, huh?” Her voice was teasing. “Have to go on walks just to have a private conversation.”

“Hey, walks are good exercise. We should take one every day. Besides, I need to tell you about my meeting with Captain Gilson.”

Her eyes brightened. “Oh, yeah, your interview. Let me get my coat.”

After letting Rodney and DaShawn know we were going for a walk, I motioned to Estelle and headed out the back way to the alley.

She followed but hesitated at the back gate. “What're we doin' out here?”

“Goin' for an explore, I guess. Come on.” Taking her hand, I led her up the alley, past the last two houses on our side of the street and around behind the McMansion at the end of the block.

“Aha!” I pointed at a gate that led into the cemetery. “I thought I saw a gate in that fence the other day when I drove around this way. Come on. That'll be a nice quiet place to walk.”

The gate was latched, but there was no lock on it. Cemeteries weren't public parks, but we'd be respectful and not disturb anything. Closing the gate behind us, we made our way to the access road that wound in a meandering loop through the whole cemetery.

“I'm sorry I put you off back there, Harry. But I just feel so self-conscious with Rodney in the house. I don't know . . . married people are obviously supposed to have a married life, and we've had a great one, but we need a little more privacy.”

“Yeah, I know. I wasn't really intendin' to . . . you know.”

She cut her eyes at me sideways. “Maybe not, but I don't like to shut down a good thing once we get goin'.”

As we strolled on, I prayed silently—in spite of my doubts—that God would show us what to do. I glanced at Estelle. Bundled up in her heavy coat with a thick brown hat she'd knitted herself pulled down over her head, she looked like a Russian babushka. But under it all, I knew she was the flamboyant love of my life. “Maybe we oughta go ahead and ask Rodney to move downstairs,” I offered. “It'd only take us a couple days to get one of the bedrooms painted, and we got my old bed out in the garage.”

“We could . . . ,” she murmured, then turned to look at me. “But would that make it harder to ask him to leave?”

I shrugged. “Well, we talked about that. But it'd also make a statement. Can't quite ask rent from a guest in your own house, but if he's in the apartment for which we need to receive rent, he needs to get on with his job search.”

“Yeah, but . . . wouldn't that put us in the position you wanted to avoid—of us having to depend on his rent to meet our mortgage payment?”

“Lettin' him sleep in one of the downstairs bedrooms isn't the same as renting the apartment to him. Let's not get ahead of ourselves here.”

“I know, I know, but it's just . . . we gotta be clear. We've kinda been going back and forth on what to do.”

I wanted to tell her the back and forth thing wasn't my idea. We had a clear plan until God . . . oh, well. “Look, I hear ya. I'll make it clear we're not offering him the apartment, at least not until he has a job that can cover it. And speaking of jobs . . .”

“Right. You were going to tell me about your interview.”

I pointed toward a bench. We sat and I replayed the whole interview and how—apart from a few smart remarks—Gilson's ideas seemed more reasonable when put into perspective. “At first I thought he was just throwing out exotic options like a salesman trying to snag a customer. But he was serious. I think he really wants me and is trying to create the role that would fit me best. I've never had an employer do that before.”

“But . . .” Estelle turned and looked at me with a puzzled expression on her face. “A dog? What would you do with him at night? Leave him down there all alone?”

“Well, there's a caretaker always on duty at the kennel. And it's a really nice kennel—more homelike than just a bunch of cages. But the kennel's mostly for when the dogs need a break during the day . . . though I suppose I could occasionally leave Corky there.”

“What?
Corky
? As in a cork bobbing round at sea? Ha! Ha!” It was her unrestrained laugh that had endeared me to Estelle from the very first. “I don't want no bouncy dog yappin' and jumpin' up on me.”

Her laugh was so infectious we both had to lean against each other on the bench for support. Finally I said. “I don't think Corky's a yapper. She's a black Lab.”

“
She
?” Her eyes got big. “Another woman, no less.” We laughed some more until Estelle suddenly sobered. “You said
occasionally
you might leave the dog in the Amtrak kennel. What about the rest of the time?”

“Well, you know, usually she'd come home with me. Dogs and their handlers need to bond, become like family.”

Estelle straightened her neck, raising her head high. “So not only are ya gonna take up with another female, but you think you're gonna bring her on up into my house? I don't think so, Harry Bentley!”

“Hey, hey, hey.” I raised both hands in surrender.

She relaxed. “I'm serious, though. A
dog
? We've got DaShawn, and now Rodney. And you want to bring a dog into our life? Harry Bentley, I—”

I stopped her by raising my finger. “That's why we're talkin' about it, Estelle. I won't take the job unless we both agree it's the right thing. As for bringing a dog up into
our
house, I think you might just end up lovin' her. A Lab is one of the calmest, most well-behaved dogs there is. And how about that Hero Dog that was at Manna House for a while? What was his name—Dandy? Didn't you like Dandy?”