The Search (7 page)

Holding the now slimed and mangled tool while the puppy bounced like a furry spring, Simon imagined giving the dog just one good whack on his bone head. Not that he would, however tempting, but imagining it wasn’t a crime.

He pictured chirping cartoon birds circling the pup’s head, and little X’s in his eyes.

“If only,” he muttered.

He set the tool out of reach on the workbench, then looked around—again—at the scatter of toys and bones on the floor of his shop.

“Why are these no good? Why is that?” He picked up a Jaws-sized rope, offered it. “There, go destroy that.”

Seconds later, as Simon wiped off the abused mallet, the dog dropped the rope on his boot, then sat, tail thumping, head cocked, eyes bright with fun.

“Can’t you see I’m busy?” he demanded. “I don’t have time to play every five damn minutes. One of us has to make a living.”

Simon turned back to the standing wine cabinet—a thing of beauty, if he did say so himself—of wild cherry and ebony. He used wood glue to affix the last of the trim while the dog attacked his bootlaces. Struggling to focus on the work, Simon shook the dog off, picked up a clamp. Shook, glued, shook, clamped.

Jaws’s growls and happy yips mixed with the U2 he’d chosen as shop music for the morning.

He ran his fingers over the smooth, silky wood, nodded.

When he walked over to check the seams on a pair of rockers, he dragged the dog with him through the sawdust.

He supposed Jaws had conned him into playing after all.

He worked for nearly two hours, alternately dragging the dog, chasing him down, ordering himself to stop and walk the dog out to what he’d dubbed Shitville.

The break wasn’t so bad, he decided. It gave him a chance to clear his mind, to take in the mild air and the bright sun. He never tired of watching the way the light—sun or moon—played over the sound that formed his narrow link between the island’s saddlebags of land.

He liked standing on his rise and listening to the subtle and steady music of the water below, or sitting for a while on the porch of his shop and contemplating the thick forest that closed him in as the sound opened him out.

He’d moved to the island for a reason, after all.

For the solitude, the quiet, the air, the abundance of scenery.

Maybe, in some convoluted way, his mother had been right to foist a dog on him. It forced him to get outside—which was a big part of the purpose of relocating. Gave him a chance to look around, relax, get in tune with what moved around him. Air, water, trees, hills, rocks—all potential inspirations for a design.

Colors, shapes, textures, curves and angles.

This little chunk of land, the woods and the water, the rocky slope, the chip and chatter of birds instead of cars and people offered exactly what he’d been after.

He decided he’d build himself a sturdy bench for this spot, something rustic and organic. Teak, he thought, reclaimed if he could find it, with arms wide enough to hold a beer.

He turned back to his shop for paper to sketch ideas on and remembered the dog.

He called, annoyed the pup wasn’t sniffing around his feet as he seemed prone to do half the time so he ended up tripping over the damn dog or stepping on him.

He called again, then again. Cursing while a messy brew of annoyance, guilt and panic stirred up in his belly, Simon began the hunt.

He looked back in the shop to see if the dog had backtracked to wreak destruction, around the building, in the brush and shrubs while he called and whistled. He scanned the slope leading down to the water, and the skinny lane leading from the house to the road.

He looked under the shop porch, then hiked to the house to circle it, check under the porches there.

Not a sign.

He was a dog, for God’s sake, Simon told himself. He’d come back. He was a
little
dog, so how far could he go? Reassuring himself, he walked back to the shop where he’d last seen the damn troublemaker and started into the woods.

Now, with his interlude of peace shattered, the play of light and shadow, the sigh of wind, the tangled briars all seemed ominous.

Could a hawk or an owl snag a dog that size? he wondered. Once, he’d thought he spotted a bald eagle. But . . .

Sure, the pup was little, but he was
solid
.

Stopping, he took a breath to reassure himself he wasn’t panicked. Not in the least. Pissed off, that’s what he was. Seriously pissed off at having to waste the time and energy hunting for a stupid puppy he’d imagined braining with a mallet.

Christ.

He bellowed the dog’s name—and finally heard the answering yips. Yips, Simon determined, as the nerves banging in his gut settled down, that didn’t sound remotely scared or remorseful but full of wild joy.

“Goddamn it,” he muttered but, determined to be cagey, tried for the same happy tone in his call. “Come on, Jaws, you little bastard. Here, boy, you demon from hell.”

He quickened his steps toward the sound of puppy pleasure until he heard the rustling in the brush.

The pup emerged, filthy, and manfully dragging what appeared to be the decaying corpse of a very large bird.

And he’d actually worried a very large bird would get the dog? What a joke.

“Jesus Christ, put that thing down. I mean it.”

Jaws growled playfully, eyes alight, and dragged his find backward.

“Here! Now! Come!”

Jaws responded by hauling the corpse over, sitting and offering it. “What the hell am I supposed to do with that?” Judging the timing, Simon grabbed the dog and booted what was left of the bird back into the brush. Jaws wiggled, struggling for freedom.

“This isn’t a game of fet—Don’t say the
f
word. On the other hand, fuck, fuck,
fuck
!” He held the dog aloft. The stench was unspeakable.

“What did you do, roll in it? For God’s sake, why?”

With no other choice, Simon tucked the odorous dog firmly under his arm and, breathing through his teeth, hiked back to the house.

On the way back he considered and dismissed hosing the dog off. No way a hosing would combat the smell—even if he could keep the dog still long enough. He considered a bath, wished he had a galvanized tub—and shackles. An indoor bath gave him visions of a flooded bathroom.

On his porch he managed to take off his boots while Jaws bathed his face in loving, death-smell kisses. He tossed his wallet on a table when he went inside and straight up to the shower.

When he’d closed them both in, Simon stripped down to boxers, ignoring the dog while Jaws attacked jeans and shirt. Then he turned on the spray.

“Deal with it,” Simon suggested when Jaws bashed into the tile, then the glass door in a bid to escape.

Teeth set, Simon picked up the soap.

 

 

THEY WERE LATE. Fiona checked the time again, shrugged and continued to fill a pot with pansies and trails of vinca. She’d simply have to train Simon to respect her schedule, but for the moment having the luxury of a bit of gardening satisfied her. Her dogs snoozed nearby, and she had a rocking mix on her iPod.

If her new students didn’t show, she’d get the second planter done, then maybe take her boys for a little hide-and-seek in the woods.

The day, sunny and mild, all blue skies and pretty breezes, was meant to be enjoyed.

She studied her work, fluffed petals, then started the second pot.

She spotted the truck.

“That’s Simon,” she said when her dogs rose. “Simon and Jaws.” And went back to her pansies.

She continued to plant as man and dog got out of the truck, as her dogs greeted them—as man waded through the dogs. And took her time placing the next cell pack of pansies, precisely.

When Simon tapped her shoulder, she pulled out her earbuds. “Sorry, did you say something?”

“We’re probably late.”

“Uh-huh.” She patted dirt.

“There were circumstances.”

“The world’s full of them.”

“We had a large share of the world’s circumstances, but the biggest involved the dead bird.”

“Oh?” Fiona glanced over at the puppy, now engaged in fierce tug-of-war with Bogart. “Did he get a bird?”

“Something else got the bird, days ago from the look—and smell—of it.”

“Ah.” She nodded and, deciding to take pity, pulled off her gloves. “Did he bring it to you?”

“Eventually. After he rolled in it for a while.”

“How’d he handle the bath?”

“We had a shower.”

“Really?” She swallowed back the laugh since he didn’t look inclined to appreciate it. “How’d that work out?”

“After he stopped trying to butt his way through the shower door and eat the soap, okay. Actually, he liked it. We may have found a shaky foot-hold of mutual ground.”

“It’s a start. What did you do with the corpse?”

“The bird?” He stared at her, wondering why the hell she’d care. “I kicked it back in the brush. I had my hands full with the dog.”

“You’d better bag it and dispose of it. Otherwise, he’s going to find it again first chance he gets.”

“Great. Perfect.”

“Smells are a dog’s crack. He did what instinct told him to do.” And the human, she decided, had done just as he should—except call and tell her he’d be late. “Given the circumstances, I’ll give you the full session. Did you do your homework?”

“Yeah, yeah. Yes,” he corrected when Fiona raised an eyebrow. “He’ll sit on command—almost every time. He’ll come on command when he damn well feels like it. Since we were here last, he’s tried or succeeded in eating a TV remote, a pillow, an entire roll of toilet paper, part of a stair tread, most of a bag of barbecue potato chips, two chairs and a mallet. And before you ask, yes, I corrected and replaced. He doesn’t give a damn.”

“Learn to puppy-proof,” she advised with no particular sympathy. “Jaws!” Fiona clapped her hands to get his attention, held them out in invitation and smiled. “Come. Jaws, come!”

He bounded over to scrabble at her knees. “Good dog!” She pulled a treat out of her pocket. “What a good dog.”

“Bullshit.”

“There’s that positive attitude and reinforcement!”

“You don’t live with him,” Simon muttered.

“True enough.” Deliberately, she set her trowel on the steps. “Sit.” Jaws obeyed and accepted another treat, more praise, more rubs.

And she watched his eyes shift over to the trowel.

When she set her hands on her knees, he struck, fast as a whiplash, and with the trowel in his teeth raced away.

“Don’t chase him.” Fiona grabbed Simon’s hand as he turned. “He’ll only run and make it a game. Bogart, bring me the rope.”

She sat where she was, the rope in her hand, and called Jaws. He raced forward, then away again.

“See, he’s trying to bait us into it. We respond, go after him, he’s won the round.”

“It seems to me if he eats your tool, he’s won.”

“It’s old, but in any case, he doesn’t know he’s won unless we play. We don’t play. Jaws! Come!” She pulled another treat out of her pocket. After a brief debate, the pup loped back to her.

“This is not yours.” She pried his mouth open, took the trowel, shook her head. “Not yours. This is yours.” And passed him the rope.

She set the trowel down again, and again he lunged for it. This time, Fiona slapped her hand on it, shook her head. “Not yours. This is yours.”

She repeated the process, endlessly patient, schooling Simon along the way. “Try not to say no too often. You should reserve it for when you need or want him to stop instantly. When it’s important. There, see, he’s lost interest in the trowel. We won’t play. But we’ll play with the rope. Grab the other end, give him a little game of tug.”

Simon sat beside her, used the rope to pull the dog in, gave it slack, tugged side to side. “Maybe I’m just not cut out for a dog.”

Willing to give some sympathy now, she patted Simon’s knee. “This from a man who takes showers with his puppy?”

“It was necessary.”

“It was clever, efficient and inventive.” And they both smelled of soap and . . . sawdust, she realized. Very nice. “He’ll learn. You’ll both learn. How about the housebreaking?”

“Actually, that’s working.”

“Well, there you go. You’ve both learned how to handle that, and he sits on command.”

“And wanders into the forest to roll in dead bird, eats my universal remote.”

“Simon, you’re such a Pollyanna.”

He sent her a narrow stare and only made her laugh. “You’re making progress. Work on training him to come, every time you call. Every time. It’s essential. We’ll work on some leash training, then give him a refresher on coming.”

As she rose, she saw the cruiser heading down her lane. “It’s a good time to teach him not to run toward a car—and not to jump on a visitor. Keep him controlled, talk to him.”

She waved and waited for Davey to pull up and get out of the car. “Hi, Davey.”

“Fee. Hi, guys, how’s it going?” He bent to rub black, yellow and brown fur. “Sorry, Fee, I didn’t know you had a lesson going.”

“No problem. This is Simon Doyle and Jaws. Deputy Englewood.”

“Right, you bought the Daubs’ place a few months back. Nice to meet you.” Davey nodded at Simon, then crouched to greet the puppy. “Hey, little fella. I don’t want to interrupt,” he said as he scratched and rubbed the exuberant Jaws. “I can wait until you’re done.”

“It’s okay. Simon, why don’t you get the leash, do a little solo work on heeling? I’ll be right there. Is there a problem, Davey?” she murmured when Simon walked to his truck.

“Why don’t we take a little walk ourselves?”

“Okay, now you’re scaring me. Did something happen? Syl?”

“Syl’s fine, far as I know.” But Davey put a hand on her shoulder, steered her into a walk toward the side of the house. “We got some news today, and the sheriff thought, since we go back, I should come talk to you about it.”