Under the Dog Star: A Rachel Goddard Mystery #4 (Rachel Goddard Mysteries) (25 page)

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 watch. “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.”

Rachel gave him a long, steady look. Shadows played across her face as a breeze rustled through the trees and shook loose a shower of leaves. For a moment he thought she was angry. But she set down her bag, moved closer, and wrapped her arms around his waist. As he enclosed her in his arms, she pressed her face to his neck and whispered, “Be careful. Please. I couldn’t take it if anything happened to you.”

***

The full harvest moon, high in the sky, made it easier than Tom expected to find the turnoff Burt Morgan had described. He pulled onto the shoulder and braked, and four more cars driven by deputies lined up behind his cruiser. Joe Dolan brought up the rear in his animal control van.

“Man, when he told you it was just a path, he wasn’t kidding,” Brandon said. Powering down his window, he focused his flashlight on the ground. “I can see tire tracks, though. There’s definitely been vehicles going in and out of there.”

The plan was to park on the road so their vehicles wouldn’t be spotted by anybody attending the dogfight. They would go in on foot. Joe would wait on the road until they needed him.

Silently they all piled out of their cars and gathered at the head of the path. The Blackwood twins, tall blond mirror images, practically vibrated with controlled excitement. Dennis Murray, stolid as always, pushed his chronically slipping glasses up his nose and rested a hand on the butt of his holstered pistol. Grady Duncan, a middle-aged veteran of several dogfighting busts, looked as calm as a man out for an evening stroll.

Tom took the lead going in, shotgun in hand. He hoped they’d be able to go the distance without using their flashlights. With the trees shedding leaves, they didn’t have the dense cover the woods would have provided in summer, and one spot of light would be enough to give them away.

They walked without speaking. The woods grew denser, with branches arching over the path and shutting out most of the moonlight. Tom couldn’t see his own boots anymore. He stepped on rocks, stumbled on roots. Behind him, he heard quiet swearing every few minutes when somebody hit an obstacle. The last crickets of the season chirped in the leaf litter and somewhere a screech owl let loose its bone-chilling cry.

Where the hell was the place? They’d been walking almost ten minutes. Tom expected to hear raucous cries from the dogfight audience, but the woods remained hushed and peaceful. He’d feel stupid if it turned out Burt was gaming him, sending him on a wild goose chase.

Suddenly the path veered to the right, and there it was, a broad open space in the woods, bathed in moonlight. A circle of wire fencing created a pen in the center. And not a person in sight.

“Damn,” Tom said.

Brandon came up behind him. “You suppose they heard we were onto them and called it off?”

“Either that, or this is just one of several spots they use, and tonight they’re holding a fight somewhere else.”

Switching on his Maglite, Tom moved forward, sweeping the beam over the ground. The trip wouldn’t be a total loss if they found evidence that dogfights had taken place here. Empty beer cans and cigarette packs littered the ground around tree stumps. He walked around the pen, examining the five-foot high fencing and the shallow pit inside. Clinging to the fence wire he found half a dozen tufts of hair, a couple with bloody skin attached, dried and withered. Patches of a darker substance on the dirt looked like dried blood.

“Let’s get some bags from the cars and collect everything,” Tom told Dennis. “We’ll get fingerprints off the trash, and we can compare the dog hair with—”

A shot cracked the air and Tom heard a bullet whiz past his head.