He could feel Bolo pulling and struggling against the leash. Before the man could lift his leg for a second kick, Creed let go of the leash.
Bolo hit him full force, slamming the man to the ground. He started to scream, but Bolo’s front paws came down hard on his chest and Creed could hear the gasp as air literally got knocked out of him.
“Good boy, Bolo. Stay put.”
“Are you… nuts?” the guy managed to stutter.
He ignored him and went to check on the dog — a skinny black Lab with a sagging belly that up until recently had been nursing puppies. Creed petted her and helped her to her feet. Told her she was a “good girl” and asked her to sit in the grass.
Before he stood back up to look inside the open liftgate, he knew what he’d find. His fingers couldn’t untie the knot quick enough, so he ripped open the end of the black plastic bag. He expected them to be already dead, but one by one the puppies started wiggling up and out.
He didn’t need to ask what this guy had intended to do. By now, Creed knew too well. People had gotten into the bad habit of dumping their unwanted dogs at the end of his driveway. It was how he had acquired many of his dogs, including Grace.
But so as not to take too much advantage, this guy was going to leave only the adult dog. The puppies he had gathered up into a trash bag. He probably would have dumped them in the river after he left Creed’s place.
“What’s your name, mister?” Creed asked, without leaving the puppies and without giving Bolo a command.
“Can you get your dog off of me?”
“Even if you don’t tell me, I have your license plate number.”
“We couldn’t afford one dog, let alone six.”
Creed counted the puppies, making sure all of them were still alive.
“Can you get your dog off of me? I can’t breathe,” the man complained.
“Yeah, that feels pretty bad, doesn’t it? To not be able to breathe.”
“Damn! You’re crazier than people say.”
“Oh, you don’t know the half of it, mister. Because if I so much as hear that you get another dog or even think about getting a dog, I’ll come find you. Do you understand that?”
The man went silent.
“Bolo, stay.”
Creed gathered all the puppies back into the bag, using it to hold them in his arms but letting all five little heads poke up and out. The mother dog saw that he was taking them, and he didn’t need to ask her to follow. She was already at his heels.
“You can’t leave me here with this dog!”
He ignored the guy again and kept walking. When he got back to the house, he’d whistle for Bolo to come home.
Tuesday
26
Early morning thunderstorms had delayed O’Dell’s flight from Washington, D.C., to Atlanta. Instead of taking a second roller-coaster flight on to Mobile, she rented a car in Atlanta, deciding she’d rather drive the four hours. Her trip turned into five hours. In the pouring rain. With lightning strikes that threatened to slice the compact rental in two.
She had chugged down a couple of Diet Pepsis as her breakfast and now acid churned in her stomach. By the time she drove into Andalusia, her nerves were raw from tight-fisting the steering wheel. Her eyes were blurred from the constant dance of windshield wipers trying to slice through the battering rain.
The café was several more miles outside of town, very much off the beaten path. But it was where the Covington County sheriff had suggested they meet, adding that the Bagleys’ acreage was only about ten minutes away.
She’d left him a voice message earlier when she realized her delay. She wouldn’t have been surprised if he had decided not to wait, but his black-and-white SUV was in the parking lot next to the elongated building. The large sign out front advertised HUNTING, FISHING, CAMPING right under BLUE LAKE CAFÉ. Maybe that explained its remote location and all the pickup-truck-driving clientele.
The sky had already started to clear, puddles now the only evidence of the storms she had just driven through. O’Dell stepped out of the air-conditioned car and immediately felt the heat and humidity hit her in the face, fogging up her sunglasses. She kept the glasses on. Figured she needed them. They were the only thing she wore that made her look like she might have the authority of an FBI agent. Of course, she wanted the authority but without looking like a fed. So she had dressed appropriately.
Her oversized chambray shirt was buttoned properly, despite the T-shirt underneath, with room to conceal her Glock, in case she needed it, tucked into the waistband of her threadbare jeans. Her shirtsleeves were rolled up haphazardly, and she wore lightweight ankle-high hiking boots that looked weathered. Still, when she walked in the door, every head turned in her direction. She may have succeeded in not being pegged as a federal agent, but what caught everyone’s attention was the one thing she had not been able to conceal. She still looked like an outsider. There was no disguising that.
A middle-aged man in the corner with bristled steel-gray hair waved at her. His white shirt with a gold badge on his chest gave him away. The chair scraped the floor as he pushed it out, standing to greet her. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and barrel-chested. His bulk matched his deep voice. But when he took her offered hand, he squeezed gently, instead of shaking it like a man who isn’t used to female colleagues.
“So you ran into those thunderstorms?” he said in place of a greeting, waiting for her to sit down.
Of course, he already knew she had driven through the downpours from her voice message. That’s what had caused her delay. Instead of getting impatient, she decided it was a good place to start. So she nodded and obliged him with the courtesy of some weather chitchat.
“I couldn’t believe it just kept pouring.”
He laughed, a rich, deep-throated sound that seemed genuine. “Welcome to the South in the good ole summertime.”
O’Dell hated the games of social politeness. It was a waste of time on a day already delayed. She didn’t want to be pulling up to Trevor and Regina Bagley’s house just as the sun was setting. However, she had dealt with small-town law enforcement enough to know that what happened in the cafés and coffee shops was just as important as what happened in the field or at the crime scene.
And to her advantage, she was already learning a few things about the sheriff, though not by his own admission. Sheriff Jackson Holt was recently divorced. His ring finger still bore the indent and faded skin. She caught him reaching for the absent ring to twist it in a habit that hadn’t had time to be replaced.
The divorce, however, had not affected his meticulous appearance. His uniform shirt and T-shirt underneath were bright white, the sleeve patches like new, and the gold badge attached with careful consideration. All his attention to detail probably meant that he played by the rules — all of them, never deviating from them, which could be a disadvantage. O’Dell was hoping to find an excuse to take a look around the Bagley place, despite the fact that Regina Bagley wouldn’t be in the mood for it. And despite the fact that they had no grounds for a warrant.
Winning over the local sheriff was one of the reasons she’d agreed to meet him for lunch — now a late lunch. And the amazing aromas from the kitchen reminded her that she hadn’t eaten yet today. Over catfish and hush puppies that made her want to move in out back behind the café, she filled in Sheriff Holt with the limited details she had decided to share. Never did she mention drugs or even hint at the idea that Trevor Bagley’s unfortunate death may have been related to dealing in drugs.