The Good Boy (47 page)

“My alert,” Joel repeats, something going dark in his eyes.

“I’ll be right back.” Pete gets out of the squad and approaches the bay and the mechanic sees him coming and palms the wrench he was using.

“I’m looking for Hector.”

“No Inglés.”
The patch on his shirt says
JULIO.

“Right, Julio,” Pete says, pronouncing the
J
. “But you
know
Hector. Osorio.
¿Donde está?”

“No está aquí.”

“I know he’s not here or I wouldn’t be asking where he is.” Pete looks back out at the squad, at Joel’s little face peeking out, an ego check: he doesn’t need to be such an asshole. “Okay, Julio,” he says, pronouncing it correctly this time. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to jam you up. I don’t. So forget Hector. I’ve got just about the whole Kane County’s Sheriff’s Department on the way here to find him anyway so forget him, and let’s just see if we can understand each other.” He takes out his wallet, makes sure Julio sees his star as he takes out a bill. “You see this?”

Julio looks.

“And you see my squad?”

Julio looks.

“That’s my kid in there. And my dog on the decal. You see my kid?”

Julio looks.

“And have you seen my dog?”

Julio looks left, where the gravel drive goes around the auto bays.

“Well. Julio. I wish I knew how to tell you that you ought to get the fuck out of here.” Pete kicks him the twenty. “Anyway.
Adios.
”

“What happened?” Joel asks when Pete gets back into the car.

“You should learn another language. I wish I had.”

Pete drives around back to where forest meets gravel, trees cleared to the property line. On the far side, a Private sign is chained across another, smaller drive.

Pete drives through, breaks the chain.

Joel holds on to his seat belt.

Twenty yards in, the gravel gives way, and soon the path narrows to ruts.

“Put your window up,” Pete says. He rides the right side of the ruts, bushes and tree branches scratching the shit out of the squad’s passenger side until the ground goes soft in a low, wet spot where the rain settled and there is no more path, just a giant puddle.

There is somewhere to go, though, there in the woods, another fifteen yards ahead: there is a clearing in front of a fenced-in shed, a concrete yard behind it.

A dog yard.

From where they are, Pete sees a section of tarp-covered cages along the fence behind the shed and he hears dogs in there, yelping and baying.

“I see him!” Joel says, up on his knees in the passenger seat.

“Osorio?”

“No—Butch! There he is—in that cage there, to the right.”

“The far right?”

“No, the middle—the one-two-three-fourth from the right.”

“Do you see anybody—any people—inside?”

Joel looks harder. “No, nobody.”

“I’m going.”

“How are you going to get in there?”

Pete reaches over, unlocks the glove box. “I don’t know yet.”

“Dad?” Joel asks, about the gun, but there can be no question.

“It’ll be okay,” Pete says, “you’re my backup.” He gets out, pops the trunk, straps on Butch’s bite sleeve, brings the bolt cutter.

There is no breeze in the woods, and by the time Pete works his way through the wet brush his clothes are damp inside and out. He stops just before the clearing, wipes sweat from his brow, gets a look.

The yard is about half the size of a basketball court, the chain-link fence eight feet high around it, steel-razor channel along the top. The shed, about an eight-by-ten plastic storage unit, stands in the center, the cages behind it, against the east fence. He sees Butch in there, fourth from the right, turning circles. Waiting.

There is another clearing on the northwest corner where a gate is locked by a noose chain. Woods cushion the rest of the property and one tree branch hangs over, a rope tied to it. A different kind of noose.

At the fence in front of him, a pair of young chocolate-nose pits grapple, huffing and grunting: they are free to roam inside, security—and they are also waiting.

Pete looks back at the squad, Joel sitting there. He wipes his brow again and waves,
all clear
, and when Joel waves back, his little hand, Pete moves off through the brush.

A few steps in, Pete’s boots stick in the muck, pulling up the smell of urine and shit that’s been hosed from the concrete, washed out to here. It also smells like death.

A few more steps in and Joel honks the squad’s horn.

Pete turns, drops the bolt cutter, and goes for his gun, finding aim at a man in the clearing, a big motherfucker with a bigger shotgun who’s looking down its barrel.

“What the fuck, hombre,” he says. His one open eye is cloudy, his face a mongrel’s.

“Put down the gun,” Pete says, edging forward, out of the brush.

“You put your fucking gun down.” The pits on the other side of the fence start to whine and yawl.

Pete says, “I’m a police officer.”

“I don’t give a fuck who you are. You’re on my property.” He raises his elbow, sweat ringing his white T-shirt.

“You’re Osorio? I was looking for you. Did Julio tell you?”

“Nobody told me nothing. I heard you drive in.” He cocks his chin; his neck is as big as his head. One of the pits at the fence starts to bark, throat hoarse, the sound like he’s convulsing.

“Listen,” Pete says, edging forward still, “I’m not here to fuck you up. This is personal: I’m just here to get my dog.”

“I don’t have your dog.”

“Yes you do. The shepherd mix. In the kennel, fourth from the right.”

“That’s my dog. I bought him.”

“He’s a police dog. Get a refund.”

“Fuck that. He fanged my best dog last night. How you going to make up for that?”

“I’m not. That’s between you and Garcia.”

“You say this is personal, then you go to Garcia. You get my money.”

“I’m not going anywhere. I told you, I’m a cop. You see my squad, when you came in? It’s there—right over there.” Pete steps into the clearing, keeps his gun trained. The other dogs are barking now, frenzied, ranting. “Do you see it?”

Osorio doesn’t look.

“You heard us come in,” Pete says, edging up a little more, “and I know you heard the horn. It’s parked right there. Do you see?”

Osorio won’t look.

“My partner is in there,” Pete says, sweat dripping into his eyes; he has no idea if Osorio saw Joel. But: “He’s a tac officer. He’s got a bead on you. It’s his call: if you don’t put your gun down, you can say goodbye to your kneecap. Take a look. Say hello.”

Now, Osorio can’t look. If he didn’t see Joel, he can only negotiate. “Fuck you,
chota,
” he says, and spits.

“Put down the gun,” Pete says. “I’m only here for my dog.”

“What if I shoot your fucking dog?”

“You don’t want to do that.” Pete takes a breath, holsters his gun, and starts to take off the bite sleeve; if he’s got backup, he’s also got control. “Listen, I told you, this is personal, but I can make it official real quick. I’m a cop, but I’m not fucking stupid. You don’t let me get my dog and walk out of here, my partner’s got another call to make. The sheriff’s Department. They’ll take this place down.”

The caged dogs gasp and snort, hysterical, a suffocating chorus.

“How do I know they aren’t coming already?”

“They
are
coming. That’s the thing. My partner’s the only one who can call them off.” Pete wraps up the sleeve, says, “You ask me? Garcia’s the bad guy here. Don’t get me wrong: you are a sick, sorry motherfucker and I hate what you’re doing and I hope one of those bulldogs in there eats your heart out while you sleep but the fact is, you didn’t know you bought
my
dog. So you should get a fair fight. That’s all I can offer.”

“Fucking Garcia,” Osorio says, and glances over at the squad.

Pete does, too, and sees the passenger door half open, and hopes Osorio doesn’t pick up on his panic when he takes a step forward to reclaim his attention and says, “The dog is all I care about. What do
you
care about, man?”

Osorio tips the shotgun toward the squad. “Tell your partner to call off the sheriff.”

32

Joel waves back,
all clear,
and watches his dad disappear into the woods. He is backup, again, though he doesn’t know how he’s supposed to be any good at it here: the squad curtained by trees, afternoon sun glaring from the west, Butch’s cage hedging his rear sightlines, the windows up. He is aware of his limitations—more aware, because of them—and he wonders if this is what being brave feels like.

Up on his knees, he turns around to see what he can see, and in between the cage grates he glimpses a giant man in a white T-shirt coming from behind: a hunter, his shotgun. He walks between the tire ruts and the sun behind him puts his face in shadow. When he finds the squad he steps down into a rut and moves forward that way, like he’s sneaking up on an animal.

Joel can’t let him get much closer; he is not safe in the cab—not from a shotgun. He’s got to alert his dad. But now? If he alerts now, he is the one standing between them. He is in the crossfire.

He turns back, the sun momentarily blinding him in the rearview, and then knows he’s found his defense. He angles the mirror to find the bright sunspot on the seat and then manipulates the reflection until it cuts through the cage grates and pierces the man’s shirt, then his neck, and then one murky eye. The man puts his hand up, a shield, and stumbles out of the rut and into the forest.

He’s too large a man to be deft and Joel catches sight of him as he plows through the woods, trampling brush along the driver’s side of the squad on his way toward the dog yard.

Toward his dad.

Joel jams on the horn.

And then, in the clearing, the man is there, gun drawn.

And then his dad comes out from the woods, gun drawn. A much smaller gun. And as he steps up, careful, using the bite sleeve to protect his chest, he looks small. Powerless. Silly.

But not scared.

Joel cracks the car door to hear a single pit bull snarling. Then the dogs in the cages—one and another and then all the dogs—begin to bark, the noise awful, like they are drowning.

Joel can’t make out what either man is saying but he sees his dad move closer, cautious but certain, and even as he puts his gun away, even as he takes off the bite sleeve, he is in control.

And as Joel watches his dad, the awareness he felt before takes him over entirely and he can see everything all at once right here, ground level: forget Tomorrowland. Forget made-up stories. This is what a hero looks like.

When his dad waves, Joel honks the horn once more.

*   *   *

It feels like forever before they appear in the clearing, his dad with Butchie, collarless. They both look beat-up, like they
were
in there forever.

Joel pushes the passenger door the rest of the way open and he’s got one foot on the ground when he hears his dad: “Joel! Stay there.”

And so he does, but he takes down the cage partition and squeezes through so he’ll be waiting, arms open, when his dad opens the back door.

“Butchie!” Joel feels sugar-high, both invincible and sick.

“Wait—” His dad holds the dog back. He is filthy, fur matted, mud caked to his undersides, paws black. His left ear is torn, and there are bite marks on his snout. He stands on trembling legs.

“Oh,” Joel says. It’s all he can say.

His dad lifts Butchie into the cage. “Just get him and hold him.”

“Oh—” Joel takes the dog in his arms and buries his face in his neck and runs his hands along his coat and up over his head and when the dog flinches Joel asks him, “What happened?” though Joel is the one shaking. There is blood—the dog’s, on his hands and shirt and his face—and it should be his own.

Butchie leans into him and lies down.

Joel’s dad starts the car and says, “Hold on, boys.” The tires spin mud as he starts to back out of the woods.

“Oh,” is what Joel keeps saying. He just feels sick, now. When the tires catch, the car goes—sudden, backward—and he holds on to Butch over the rough road, knocking around the back until they’re out of the woods.

Then his dad stops, says, “Stay down,” and puts the car in Drive. Gravel kicks up everywhere, and they go.

Joel looks down at Butchie, but the dog won’t look back; he just looks out the window, skyward. Joel thumbs the soft fur back on his cheek. Every once in a while he starts to pant, but as soon as his tongue comes out, flopping, he closes his mouth and quits trying.

“What’s wrong with him, Dad?”

“He’s dehydrated. We’ll stop. Just hold on.”

Joel holds on until they pull into a gas station. His dad pulls past the pumps and parks and when he gets out he doesn’t have to tell Joel to stay because Joel would never leave. Butchie closes his eyes, and Joel hopes he knows he’s safe now, but just in case he whispers to him, tells him so.

When his dad comes back he’s bought a package of baby wipes and two bottles of water and he puts those in the cage and then brings a towel and the first aid kit from the trunk. He climbs in with them.

“Get him comfortable,” he tells Joel while he readies a bag of Viaflex from the kit.

Joel spreads the towel and positions Butchie on top of it. Then his dad opens up the wipes and they clean their hands and Joel washes Butchie’s foreleg with the water and a wipe as his dad readies the liter bag of solution, the catheter.

“Good,” his dad says, “give him some water.”

Joel tips one of the bottles to Butchie’s mouth, most of it trickling past into the towel. He thinks of the drinking fountain in the triangle-shaped park, of Butchie standing up there, lapping at the arc of water. His circus trick. He was proud.

“Hold his leg for me, here,” his dad says, an alcohol swab, the IV. “Good,” he says again. “Good boy.”

Joel doesn’t know if he’s talking to him or to the dog.

“I am sorry, Butchie,” Joel says, “I’m sorry I got you into all this trouble.”

“This isn’t your fault. Butch had a fight of his own.”