Gun Shy (23 page)

I called hoarsely, “Cisco, here.”

Cisco came anxiously to me. “Cisco,” I said, struggling to make the words audible. “Go kennel.” He hesitated. He hated crates. He barely even recognized the command. I repeated sternly,
“Go kennel.”

I was overcome by a fit of coughing. When I could focus again, Cisco had wandered over to Hero’s crate.
Thank you, thank you, God of Dogs. . . .

I choked, “Cisco, tug!
Tug!
”

And what I was thinking was,
I’ll never ask you for another double-Q, forget the utility dog title, please, please, please, just tug, oh, please!

And the next thing I knew, Hero was free from his crate and sniffing the floor next to me. Sandy was making an odd sound that was part crying, part laughing, part a triumphant, “Yes!”

My head spun. Smoke clogged my throat, cutting off my oxygen, and I struggled to focus, to breathe. “Hero,” I gasped. “Good dog. Go door.
Door
.”

He was not familiar with the environment, but he could see better in the dark than I could. He looked around, and he found the door. He jumped up and pawed the lock until it released, and the door opened outward against his weight onto a black tornado of smoke.

The smoke billowed inward like a tidal wave. I tried to speak, and what I wanted to do was to tell Hero to
run
, to save himself, to jump through a window if he had to and to take Cisco with him. My reason was fading, my head was spinning and black smoke burned my lungs. Whatever sounds I made were unintelligible.

Then I heard Sandy shouting, “Nero, phone! Find the phone!”

I couldn’t breathe. My throat was closing up, my nose clogged with mucus. My lungs were bursting, ready to explode, and all I could taste in my mouth was oil and smoke. I felt Cisco’s warm furry body pressed against mine.
Go!
I wanted to scream at him.
Go, don’t stay here and die with me, go, run, be safe! Cisco, please go!

But my precious dog didn’t move.

And then, as though from far away, I heard a tinny, squawking voice: “Nine-one-one emergency. Do you have an emergency?”

I gasped, “Fire! Help—”

I thought I heard the voice reply, “Raine, is that you?” But mostly, all I heard was barking.

“You’ve got to admit,” said Sonny, “it sounds like one of those stories that should be on Animal Planet. ‘Miracle Dog Saves Woman from Certain Death.’ ”

I gave her a dry look. “Coming from the Woman Who Talks to Dogs,” I said, “I guess that’s saying a lot.”

The doctors said I had sustained a concussion, in addition to smoke inhalation, and insisted on keeping me in the hospital overnight. Uncle Roe and I had been released from the hospital on the same day, and he hadn’t stopped lecturing me yet.

My first few days at home had been shaky and uncertain, complicated by the repeated visits from law officers and insurance agents. But I was well on my way to recovery now, and to celebrate, Sonny had invited me to lunch at Miss Meg’s, downtown Hansonville’s most popular eatery.

She had also invited my cosurvivor, Sandy Lanier. To what I have to believe was the surprise of both of us, Sandy had accepted.

“I know it sounds miraculous,” Sandy said, “but it’s really just what Nero—I mean, Hero—was trained to do. The emergency button on Mickey’s telephone was programmed to speed-dial nine-one-one—and so was Raine’s. Most people’s are. All Hero had to do was hit the button with his nose, just like he’d been trained to do at service dog school. Fortunately, you’re set up with E-nine-one-one, so that the dispatcher knew where the call was coming from without your having to give her directions. Otherwise it might have been a different story altogether.”

The volunteer fire department had arrived within ten minutes of the call. But long before that, sheriff’s department deputies had pulled Sandy and me out of the kennel storeroom and onto the front lawn, where we were given oxygen and first aid by arriving paramedics.

The damage to the kennel had been slight, all things considered: mostly water and smoke. And no dogs had been harmed at all. However, getting the repairs done promised to be a lengthy and frustrating process, since every contractor in the county was tied up building Miles Young’s house, and none of them was willing to take even a day off from such a lucrative project to bring in the equipment needed to do the cleanup on my little job.

My only clear memory of the events after the 911 call was of Buck, squeezing my fingers when they put me in the ambulance, the tenderness and the concern behind the bracing smile in his eyes as he said, “Damn, girl. When are you going to learn to stay out of trouble?”

He had sent yellow roses while I was in the hospital even though he knew my favorite was yellow daisies, and he had signed the card from the whole department. But he had left word at the nurse’s station that Cisco, a certified therapy dog, should be allowed to stay the night with me under the supervision of his competent handler, Maude Braselton. For that he was forgiven almost everything. Almost.

Sonny inquired gently of Sandy, “What will you do now?”

Sandy said quietly, “I had an affair with a married man. I screwed up my life.”

She pushed salad around on her plate. So did I.

“I know it’s no excuse,” Sandy went on in a heavy voice, “but Mickey White was a bitter, unpleasant woman. She tormented poor Leo, and everyone else around her. People at the hospital dreaded the days she was scheduled to come in. I know she was in pain, and her frustration must have been tremendous, but she went out of her way to hurt and insult people. The spoiled rich kid who was so accustomed to having everything her way, and started throwing a permanent tantrum when she was diagnosed . . .

“Leo was just a decent guy doing the best he could for his disabled wife, and I guess I felt sorry for him at first. I would see him in the hospital coffee shop, and we would talk—or he would talk, mostly. He needed to unburden himself, and I understood. I let it go too far. I knew better, but”—she lifted one shoulder, darted a quick, unhappy glance from Sonny to me, and finished— “like I said, that’s no excuse.”

She was silent for a moment, playing with her fork.

Then she added, “Now I’m a material witness in a criminal investigation. Until the trial, I can’t change my address. But after that . . . My parents live in Arizona. I thought Ringo and I might try our luck out there.”

Sonny smiled. “I’m sure there’s a great need for dancing dogs there.”

Sandy returned her smile bravely. “And maybe even physical therapists.”

The man called Alan Mesner had been picked up less than ten miles from town. He now awaited trial in the county jail on charges of parole violation, kidnapping, aggravated assault, conspiracy to commit murder, attempted murder, and that was only the beginning of the list.

Charges were pending, I understood, against David Kines, who, according to Mesner, had hired him to “mess up” Leo White. Mickey White had made Mesner a better offer—a half million in gold coins and he didn’t even have to get his hands dirty. All he had to do was meet her at the cabin with the gun and collect a bag filled with gold.

Mickey had set up everything, the fake e-mails from Sandy arranging the tryst, the isolated cabin in the woods, even the missing dog food so that Leo would have to leave long enough for Alan to deliver the gun. It wasn’t enough that her husband be punished for his infidelity; she wanted him to suffer for the rest of his life, even while she ended her own. She had known that, even if Leo should somehow escape prosecution for her murder, her father would exact his own revenge for her death.

The plan had gone awry when Leo, returning from town, had pulled around the back of the cabin, intending to enter through the back door. He had either seen his dead wife through the back window, or he had seen Mesner coming out the front and had recognized him as the man who had previously stalked him; no one could know for sure. At any rate, he took flight, and Mesner, whose vehicle was hidden in the brush off the road a few hundred yards, lost enough time in the chase that he never had a chance of catching Leo. In his panic, Leo drove down a ravine and suffered a head injury that eventually caused him to pass out and drown in the creek.

Pending investigation, the police had kept the discovery of the bag of money quiet, so Mesner had never known that it was all over. With no chance of getting the money from Leo, he had waited for Sandy, certain that she either already had it or knew where it was. Sandy had not even known Leo was dead until Mesner told her.

Sonny inquired, “Are they still treating Mickey White’s death as a murder? Does anybody believe that story about her killing herself?”

I shrugged. “My sources at the sheriff’s department have dried up. All I know is that the district attorney hasn’t charged Mesner with murder. That makes me think he doesn’t have enough evidence.”

“I believe it,” Sandy said. “Mickey White was a strange and cruel woman. I think it’s completely within her character to plot her own suicide just to punish her husband.”

I saw the shadow fall over her bruised face and noticedthe mostly uneaten lunch. I said, “Come on, this is supposed to be a party. Let’s talk about something else.”

And so we did. We talked about Hero, who in his now unofficial capacity as a service dog, lay quietly but alertly under the table near Sonny’s feet awaiting his next command. On hearing of Sonny’s predicament, and learning that I was more than willing to take whatever time was needed to help rehabilitate Hero, Wes Richards had expedited the paperwork, making it possible for Sonny to adopt Hero as a retired service dog.

Even if Hero never fully recovered from his terror of loud noises, he was more than capable of meeting Sonny’s needs. She would never again have to worry about falling and being unable to reach the phone, and the steps that Hero could save her each day doing ordinary things like carrying laundry to the hamper and picking up things she had dropped would give her many pain-free hours she might not otherwise have had.

Almost more important, Hero was working again. He walked with pride and energy in his step and, when he was off duty, even ran and played with Mystery—although he never got so far away from Sonny that he could not hear if she called, or see her if she needed him. Sonny said that saving us from the fire had, in his mind, made up in some fashion for being unable to save Mickey. I don’t know about that, but I do know a happy dog when I see one. And Hero’s spirit had been restored.

We talked too, about dancing dogs, and how eager Cisco was to start adding a dance routine to his therapy dog visits at the nursing home as soon as he was back on all four paws. By the time Sandy left to pick up Ringo and check out of the hotel for her trip back to Charleston, she was laughing and promising to send me some instructional videos as soon as she got home. She was almost, but not quite, the vivacious young woman I had met at the Pet Fair a week ago. And although she might never be that carefree again, I thought some of the pall that surrounded her was beginning to lift.

When we were alone, Sonny said, reading my thoughts, “She’ll be dancing again in no time.”

“I hope so.” I picked up my coffee cup. “Thanks for lunch. This was a good idea.”

“I hope this doesn’t spoil the party, but . . .” Sonny reached into her oversized purse and took out a manila envelope. “I was in Asheville yesterday and saw Paul Kelly. He asked me to bring you these.”

Sonny was not a divorce lawyer, but she knew someone who was. His name was Paul Kelly. I took the envelope from her slowly.

“There’s no hurry,” she said. “Take them home, look them over, call Paul with any questions. You can mail them, or I’ll take them back with me.”

I opened the envelope and slid out the legal document. At the top of the first page was written PETITION FOR DIVORCE.

“When are you going to see him again?” I asked casually.

“I’m going in that direction tomorrow. But that doesn’t mean—”

“Don’t be silly.” I took a pen from my purse and quickly scrawled my signature on all the lines where a tabbed yellow arrow said SIGN HERE. “No point in wasting the postage. Besides”—I returned the papers to the envelope and slid it back across the table to her. I knew my smile was sad, and a little forced, but at least it was a smile—“it’s not as though I haven’t done this before.”

She nodded, understanding, and put the envelope back into her purse.

We finished our coffee, chatting in a desultory fashion, and then she glanced at the cashier’s stand. “It looks like the lunch crowd has thinned out. I’m going to let Hero practice paying the check. Actually,” she added, using her cane to help steady herself as she got to her feet. The minute she touched the cane, Hero was standing and alert. “Hero knows exactly what he’s doing. I’m the one who needs the practice!”

I watched, grinning with pleasure, as Hero took the bill from Sonny’s hand and carried it to the counter. All the waitresses gathered around, oohing and aahing, as he placed his front paws on the counter and waited for change.

A soft voice said my name, and I looked up. My grin faded as I saw Wyn standing there.

She gestured hesitantly to the seat Sonny had just vacated. “Could I—? I’ll only take a minute, I promise.”

Because my mother had raised me to have impeccable manners, even though I did not always use them, I said, “Of course. But I was just getting ready to leave.”

“Please.” She slid into the seat opposite me. “A minute, I promise.”

It was odd, seeing her out of uniform. I know I must have before, but I had never noticed what a pretty girl she was, with her curly, shoulder-length, honey-colored hair and a figure that looked nice in the turtleneck sweater and fitted jeans she wore today. It was just odd, looking at her in a whole new light.

She folded her hands tightly on the table before her and said, glancing down at them, “I just wanted to you know . . . I’m leaving.”