Hanging up, she looked at Joe and Clyde. “Dallas,” she said. “He’s afraid Kent Colletto might have Benny—they only caught his brother Jared and that Dorriss person.”
As she headed for the closet to throw on her jeans and a sweater, Rock followed her, caught up in their excitement, shivering with anticipation for whatever adventure the night offered.
It had been nearly a year since Rock learned the protocol and honed his skills to track a human victim or criminal. A Weimaraner hunts by both sight and scent, he’s bred for many jobs, and a good Weimaraner is hungry to work. But without proper training, even the best dog is of no use. Ordinarily, such training is started when a dog is very young, and takes many months, or years, to perfect. But not Rock, not with Joe Grey running the show. In one amazing lesson, in one afternoon, Joe had taught Rock to track as skillfully as a seasoned bloodhound and with equal determination.
Joe’s nose was as keen as Rock’s and, using a technique impossible for a human trainer, Joe had hurried along with his own nose to the trail, while at the same time giving Rock voice commands. Rock saw, he smelled, he followed the scent that Joe followed, while absorbing Joe’s voice command words. He learned all at once what he must do, and the command to do it, bonding with Joe’s single-minded passion as the tomcat pursued the scent. By the end of that afternoon, Rock was hooked. He knew what to do, he would stay on any given scent undiverted, would not veer off after rabbits or a deer or even a rare sirloin steak emitting its charbroiled aroma. Since that memorable day of training, Rock and Ryan had assisted Dallas in three cases, with results that left Dallas deeply puzzled, and as deeply impressed. Dallas Garza was a dog man, he knew what it took to train a good tracking hound. Rock’s sudden metamorphosis from undisciplined natural talent to honed professional was impossible—but at last Dallas had accepted what he saw, sensibly laying aside his uneasy questions. The fact that their efforts had put three separate offenders in jail was proof enough, for the moment. One man was still awaiting trial, and two were already convicted, one for armed robbery, the other for burglary and grand theft auto, for stealing the high school principal’s vintage Austin-Healey. Rock had nailed the three, and the big dog was now an unofficial volunteer for MPPD. At this very moment he was gearing up for work, pacing and pushing at Ryan to hurry, his short tail vibrating with excitement.
Within minutes the four of them were down the stairs, Rock and Joe Grey leading at a gallop, and into Ryan’s truck, heading for Maudie’s house. Only little Snowball was left behind in the upstairs study, sitting up in her blanket on the love seat, listening to her family depart. The little white cat didn’t offer to follow, didn’t consider for a minute leaving the warm house in the middle of a cold winter night.
40
WHEN BENNY’S MOTHER woke him in the dark room, he’d yelled once before she slapped a hand over his mouth, hurting him, pressing so hard he tasted blood. He tried to scramble out of bed on the opposite side from her, to get away, maybe crawl under the bed, but she twisted his arm, jerked him off the bed, and pulled him against her, squeezing his shoulder hard. In the glow of the night-light he couldn’t see Jared, Jared’s bed was flat and empty. He stared at the woman’s curly blond hair, not his mother’s sleek black pageboy, but it was his mother’s face scowling down at him.
The last time he’d seen her, a slant of moonlight had lit her face—then there’d been the blaze of gunshot, the white light blinding him as Grandma jerked him down to the floor of the car, into the smell of dust. In the blackness after, he could still see his mother’s face, cold with anger. He’d told no one he saw her, not even Grandma.
Now, panicked to have his mother’s hand across his mouth so he couldn’t yell for help, he bit her. She hit him so hard it made his ears ring. “You do that again, or make a sound, I’ll send you where I sent your daddy.” She smelled of the tingly perfume that made him sneeze. Bending his arm painfully behind him, she’d managed with her other hand to stuff a pillow and a blanket under the covers, patting them into a shape that, he guessed, would look like him sleeping, with his head tucked under. Then she pushed him ahead of her, gripping his shoulder like a metal claw, forced him out of the room and down the hall to the stairs. She paused at the top of the dark steps, listening.
Below, the front door stood open, the porch light was on, and Grandma stood on the porch, her back to them, talking to someone. His mother forced him down the stairs behind Grandma, keeping to the edge of the steps so they wouldn’t squeak. Why was there grass on the stairs? Grandma wouldn’t like that. With her hand hard over his mouth, his mother jerked him past the front door into the kitchen and through the glass door to Grandma’s studio. He could smell cut grass in there, mingled with the new-room smell. Pushing and dragging him through the studio, she shoved him outside, slid the door closed behind them. The bricks were cold under his bare feet as she dragged and pushed him up the hill through the neighbors’ backyard and the next yard, through the scratching bushes. Up and up the hill, behind Ryan’s cottage and up through the thorny tangles. He wanted to yell for help but was afraid she’d hurt him worse. He could still see that explosion of gunfire and her cold face as she killed his daddy and Caroline. At the top of the hill they came out of the bushes to a sidewalk. Turned right up a side street to a white, sleek car. When she tried to push him in the backseat he fought her, jerked away, ducked under the car against the tire. He clung to the tire but she loosened his arms, twisting his left arm, she pulled him out again. When he hit and kicked at her she held his hands behind him, shoved him in the car on the floor of the backseat.
He hurt bad, but he didn’t dare move as she got in the front. She closed the door softly so no one would hear from one of the houses that loomed dark all around them. He could see her between the bucket seats, he kept his eyes slitted closed so she wouldn’t see him looking. Her white thin hands on the wheel were shaking. He watched her warily, clutching his arms around himself, shivering in his pajamas. His bare feet were cold, and stinging from the thorny bushes. When he tried to see out the window, she turned to look at him. “You keep down. I don’t want your head above the glass. Don’t bother trying the doors, they have safety locks, you can’t open them. Be quiet and keep down.” She didn’t call him by his name, not once. Starting the car, she pulled out real slow and quiet. She turned down Grandma’s street, he could see the paler sky above black trees, could see the high roof of Grandma’s house slip by, the familiar stone chimney. Maybe he could slide between the bucket seats fast into the front, unlock the passenger door, jump out, and run—except he knew he wouldn’t be fast enough, he knew she’d catch him.
When they were past Grandma’s house she hit the gas so hard she sent him sliding, and she sped down the hill toward the village. There were no streetlights, only a few house lights swinging across the glass above him. They must have crossed the village, for soon they were among bigger, taller houses, where he could see upstairs lights burning. She slowed and pulled to the curb.
Killing the engine, she put the window down. A blast of cold air sucked in. It was lighter here, house lights and some shops. Slowly he eased up to look. She was watching the tall house down at the corner, across the street. His heart pounded with excitement when he heard the metallic sound of a police radio. When he eased up, he could see a black-and-white parked just past the tall house.
“Get down. I told you to stay down,” she snapped. She started the car and pulled away, around the corner and up the hill.