Under the Dog Star: A Rachel Goddard Mystery #4 (Rachel Goddard Mysteries) (36 page)

Rachel went cold inside. “What’s happened?”

Tom stuck his phone back in his pocket. “Beck Rasey’s dead. Killed by a dog, just like Gordon Hall.”

***

Babs Rasey screamed again and again. She was on the front porch, barefoot and wearing only a nightgown, and one of the Blackwood twins was trying to hold her back as she struggled to get to her husband.

Beck lay spread-eagle in the yard at the bottom of the front steps. The other Blackwood twin—Keith, Tom guessed as he walked up the driveway—stood a few feet away from the body. Gretchen Lauter hadn’t arrived yet.

Keith flicked his flashlight beam over the driveway pavement ahead of Tom. “Watch out there, Captain. Blood.”

Tom unhooked his flashlight from his equipment belt, switched it on, and swept the light across the driveway. Arterial spray, at least fifteen feet from the body, was soaking into the cracks in the concrete. He stepped onto the grass and picked out a path that didn’t require him to walk in blood.

Crouching beside Beck, he examined the wound. Beck’s throat, like Hall’s, had been torn out all the way down to the spinal cord. Shifting the light, Tom saw a few scratches on Beck’s bare chest where his terrycloth robe had fallen open. Blood soaked the robe.

Babs Rasey went on screaming.

Tom walked up the front steps, his ears ringing from her high-pitched cries. He hoped to god she had seen something, heard something. “Babs,” he said, keeping his voice calm, “do you have any idea who did this?”

“Yes, god damn it!” she yelled. “I saw him! Leo Riggs, that filthy piece of trash. He turned that monster dog on Beck. He killed him, Tom, he killed Beck.” She sagged, and Kevin Blackwood had to grab her around the waist to keep her on her feet.

Ah, god,
Tom thought. Leo probably knew Pete Rasey was in jail, and it didn’t take much brain power to figure out that the boy had given up the time and location of the dogfight. Leo couldn’t get to Pete—yet—so he’d killed Beck instead. “Tell me exactly what happened,” Tom said to Babs.

She choked out the words between sobs. “He walked right up to our door and knocked, and he got Beck outside and turned that dog on him. Oh, god, Beck never should’ve made Pete talk to you.”

With her husband lying dead in the yard, Tom wasn’t going to argue the point with her. All he could do now was promise to keep her son safely locked up until they caught Leo. They would have to protect Babs too. Why hadn’t Leo killed her? Why did he leave a witness behind? “Did Leo threaten you?” he asked. “How did you get rid of him?”

“I shot him, that’s how!” She gestured toward the shotgun leaning against the wall next to the front door. “I tied to shoot the dog too, but he got out of range.”

“Are you sure you hit Leo?”

“Oh, yeah, I know for damned sure I hit him. I was close, and I got him right in the belly.” In the space of a few seconds, her grief morphed into dry-eyed fury. “I shot that son of a bitch and he took off running like the coward he is.”

Chapter Thirty-eight

“I need your help this morning,” Rachel told Jim Sullivan on the phone. She’d called at six a.m., but as a farm vet he was used to early hours, and she doubted she would wake him. He’d answered on the first ring. “Could you reschedule any appointments you have so you can come with me?”

“Come with you where?” He sounded wary. “Help you with what?”

“The deputies rescued some dogs last night in a raid on a dogfight.” Rachel waited to see if Sullivan would react to that. He remained silent. “I patched up two of them, and they’re at the clinic now. I need to examine the others at the pound. I’d like you to help me.”

A short silence, then, “I’ve got my own work to do.”

“I’m sure nobody will mind if you reschedule.”

“Why are you asking me? Why can’t somebody else help you?”

“Because these are aggressive animals and I need someone who won’t be afraid of them.”

“Look, I don’t think so.”

“Dr. Sullivan—Jim—the clinic has a contract with the county to provide medical care to animals at the pound. This is part of our job.”

“I’m just saying one of the other vets can go with you.”

Rachel could give him a direct order, but that wouldn’t go over well. Softening her voice, she said, “You know how young and inexperienced they are. You’re the only vet on the staff I can trust with these dogs. I’ll feel a lot more confident if you’re there with me.”

He didn’t answer.

Okay, I’ll take that as a yes.
“Would you meet me at the pound? Say, within the hour? If we work fast, maybe you’ll only be a little late for your appointments and you won’t have to reschedule anything for another day.”

Rachel heard him sigh. She waited.

“All right,” he said. “I’ll be there.”

Yes!
She was determined to put her doubts about Sullivan to rest—or prove she’d been right all along.

***

Tom wasn’t surprised to see Sheriff Willingham pulling into the parking lot at headquarters ahead of him. The sheriff’s phone had probably started ringing before daybreak.

Tom parked in his reserved space next to the sheriff’s and got out. He walked over and held the door as Willingham struggled out of his vehicle. Before the sheriff could speak, Tom said, “We released most of them after booking, but they’ll have to show up in court. I’m not letting any of then off, no matter who they are.”

Willingham sighed and shook his head. “I’ve seen it before, but I’ll never stop being shocked that respectable men would be part of that nasty business. No real man takes pleasure in animals being forced to hurt each other. Make them pay a price for it.”

“I’m glad you see it that way.” Tom was a little surprised the sheriff wasn’t making exceptions for a couple of his political supporters who’d been arrested at the dogfight.

“I was wrong about those abandoned dogs,” Willingham said. “I’m glad y’all got them rounded up—good job, quick and thorough—and I don’t mind admitting I was an ass for thinking they killed Gordon Hall.”

The sheriff was full of surprises today. “That’s done with now,” Tom said. “We’ve got bigger problems to tackle. The guys are inside waiting for me—”

“Hold on a minute.” The sheriff leaned on his cane. “You know, if you plan to campaign for sheriff, you’ll get some trouble from people you’ve run afoul of. You’ve got principles. Not everybody appreciates that.”

For a moment Tom was too confused to respond. “I’m not running for any office. You’re the sheriff. I’m not planning to oppose you.”

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that.” Willingham placed a hand on his shoulder. Tom had the feeling he was about to hear momentous news, but he didn’t want to imagine what it might be.

“You know how much your dad meant to me,” Willingham said.

“Yes, sir,” Tom said. He was a little alarmed by the quaver in Willingham’s voice. “He thought a lot of you too. He was always telling Chris and me stories about the two of you in Vietnam. Mom didn’t want to hear about it, but we ate it up.”

Willingham nodded, blinking rapidly. Did the old man actually have tears in his eyes?

“Well, I’ve watched you turn into a fine man too,” Willingham said, “as smart and honest and dependable as John was. A fine law enforcement officer.”

What was this leading up to? While the sheriff kept him out here in the parking lot, deputies waited inside for him to prepare them for a dangerous manhunt. “Sir—”

Willingham hushed him with a motion of one hand. “I won’t be running for reelection, Tom. My health is just too bad, I’m not serving the county the way a sheriff ought to. I hope you’ll run for the office next year. I’ll give you my full backing.”

Tom was dumbfounded. He’d known the sheriff’s health was failing, he’d known that eventually Willingham would have to step down, but he’d never considered what that might mean for his own future. And he didn’t have time to think about it now. “Sir, I—I don’t know what to say.”

“One piece of advice, though,” Willingham said. “You know folks around here are pretty conservative. So before you announce you’re going to run, you and Dr. Goddard need to get married.”

***

A few minutes later, Tom addressed the dozen deputies assembled around the conference room table. The sheriff sat in a chair against a wall and kept silent. “If Leo’s wounded,” Tom said, “and we have to assume he is, then he’ll need help, but he’s not likely to show up in the ER. If he’s not at his parents’ place, they’ll know where he is. Before we head out there, we have to be sure what we’re up against. They could all open fire on us.”

“Even his mom?” Brandon asked with a grin.

“Maddy Riggs isn’t some harmless little old lady, believe me. She might not give a damn about her half-black grandkids, but she’ll protect her son any way she has to. And she’s a great shot.”

“So how are we going to manage this?’ Dennis asked. “They’re up on the side of a mountain, and with most of the leaves down, they can see anything that’s coming their way.”

“We’re not going to try sneaking up on them. We’re not going up on foot. That’s too dangerous.” Tom had a sudden sharp memory of another time, less than a year before, when he and Brandon had approached a suspect’s cabin in the woods and he’d ended up with a bullet in his arm. “We’ll be safer in our vehicles. But be careful. I don’t want to break bad news to anybody’s family today.”

***

Rachel paced the small parking area in front of the county pound, checking her watch every couple of minutes. She was early, Sullivan wasn’t late yet. But would he show up at all? How would she, as his boss, deal with him if he didn’t come?

She was so close to believing he would stand her up that the sight of his mud-covered van coming down the road startled her. She rushed to her Range Rover, snatched her medical bag from the passenger seat, and waited at the building’s door as if she’d just arrived.

Looking grim, Sullivan joined her with his bag in hand and pulled open the door. He didn’t speak and he didn’t make eye contact. If he didn’t want to talk, fine. Rachel hadn’t summoned him here to chat with him.

“Hey, docs,” Joe Dolan said when they entered the small front office of the building. This early in the morning no one was working behind the counter that served as a reception desk. Joe waved them toward the door into the kennel. “They’ve all had breakfast and they seem pretty calm. I guess they’re used to being in cages.”

Rachel detected no trace of emotion on Sullivan’s face. He seemed distant, as if his mind were elsewhere. He followed Joe and Rachel into the kennel.

Cages at floor level lined the bright room. In one big cage, four brown puppies slept in a pile, their plump bellies rising and falling with every breath. Joe kept the place immaculate, and usually when Rachel came here the only smell she detected was that of clean dog hair. Today she smelled urine and feces. All eight of the pit bulls, in individual cages against one wall, shrank back, trying to hide as the three people approached.

Rachel kept her voice quiet to avoid alarming the dogs further. “I’d like to get blood samples from them,” she told Sullivan, “but that’ll have to wait. Examining them and giving them vaccines is probably all we can get done today.”

Sullivan finally broke his silence. “Blood samples? For what?”

“For the national database of fighting dogs. It can help police track a dog’s origin.”

Sullivan frowned, his face pinched, but he didn’t respond.

Rachel crouched by the first cage. The dog inside looked half-grown, more of a pup than an adult. It watched Rachel with wary eyes from a bed that took up a third of the cage. “I can’t believe an animal this young was going to be forced to fight,” she said.

Sullivan, standing above her, said nothing.

“Hey, there,” Rachel crooned to the dog. “We’re not going to hurt you. You’re safe now.”

The dog cocked his ears forward. When he made eye contact with Rachel, he whimpered softly.

Rachel pulled a bag of dog treats from her bag and offered one of the sausage-like snacks through the mesh on the cage door. “Want a treat? It smells good, doesn’t it? Come on now, you can have it.”

“Let me try.” Sullivan crouched beside her.

Startled by his abrupt willingness, she said, “Oh. Okay, sure.”

Sullivan took the treat. “Move off a little, would you? Both of you.”

Rachel and Joe stepped back, against the wall. Rachel wasn’t sure what she expected. She didn’t know what it would take to prove her theory that Sullivan had treated these dogs before.

Sullivan offered the treat to the dog. “Here you go, boy. Come and get it.”

The dog began to wag his tail. After a moment he stood and crept toward the mesh that separated him from the man. He took the treat from Sullivan’s fingers and stood in place, chewing, his eyes locked on Sullivan. His tail wagged faster.

This one knows him,
Rachel thought. She felt queasy, revolted, at the same time she was grateful to see evidence that Sullivan had treated the dogs kindly.

“He wants another one,” Sullivan said.

Rachel pulled out another fake sausage and handed it to Sullivan. This time, after downing the treat, the dog allowed Sullivan to poke a couple of fingers through the mesh and scratch his head.