And Scotty had no home at all, at present. When he returned to Molena Point he'd be staying with Dallas, who already had two elderly pointers that he was boarding until he could build a fence of his own, aged dogs who were past the need to run for miles. Dogs that had never known the consuming needs of this more active breed.
The dog had appeared the first time, without the boys, on a moonless night as she and Scotty and Dan sat in the trailer eating supper. A soft movement at the open door, a pale shape against the dark screen so insubstantial and ghostly they thought it was a young deer stepping inexplicably up onto the tiny porch. Then they saw the dog peering in, sniffing the scent of food.
Of course Scotty invited him in. The dog had come willingly, staring at their plates but he didn't beg or charge the table. He stood silent and watchful, observing them and their supper with those serious yellow eyes, studying each of them in turn. Scotty had hesitated only a moment, then blew on his plate to cool the hot canned stew, stirred and blew again, and set it on the floor.
Not until Scotty stepped back did the dog approach the plate. He paused, looking up at Scotty.
"It's okay. It's for you."
The dog inhaled the stew in three gulps. They had fed him all their suppers and opened another can. After an hour they fed him again, bread and canned hot dogs. Over the period of several hours they cleaned out the cupboard. The dog had slept in the trailer that night, and the next morning they called the sheriff, thinking he'd gotten lost from some hunter. From then on the dog would show up every couple of days, usually with the kids, but always starving. The boys had no notion where he lived, nor did the sheriff or his deputies.
Now as Ryan opened the door the cats came alert, prepared to leap from the sill and away. The dog trotted out quietly looking them over but making no move to approach. Ryan, with a handful of paper towels, stood on the deck wiping the dried mud from his coat. But then as she started down to the truck, she paused, frowning, and turned back inside. The dog followed her, staying close, looking up at her begging her to get a move on.
Picking up the phone and dialing the station, she was relieved to be put through at once to Dallas. "Have you gotten Curtis Farger to talk? Gotten a line on where he was staying in San Andreas?"
"Nothing yet. Why? Officers searched the old man's shack again this morning, but no sign that a bomb had been put together there-and no sign of Gramps and no fresh shoe tracks or tire tracks, no indication anyone's been back there."
"I think I might have something. I'd like to come talk with Curtis."
"This hasn't anything to do with Rupert?"
"No, it hasn't."
He waited, not responding.
"There was a dog up there around the trailer, hanging out with those kids. He's in my kitchen now, looks like Curtis brought him along for company. Looks like when he got to Molena Point Curtis never thought to take care of the animal, but just let him run loose."
"You didn't mention a dog when we talked."
"I had a reason."
"Which was?"
"I'll tell you later. It hasn't anything to do with Curtis."
"You sure it's the same dog?"
"Same dog. A fine big weimaraner. There aren't two like this one. Scotty and I tried to find his owners. We both wanted to keep him, but…"
"So what's the secret?"
"When you see him, you'll want him."
Dallas laughed. "You think if you bring the dog in, you can soften Curtis up?"
"I think it's worth a try. He seemed to really like the dog, maybe he would open up. When the dog was around, Curtis was always hanging on him, hugging him."
"And you're all right, about this morning?"
"I'm fine," she lied.
"Come on in."
"I need to get him some food, first. And feed myself, I'm dizzy with hunger. Have you eaten anything?"
"As we speak. Enjoying the last bite of a double cheeseburger."
Hanging up, she got a bath towel and, down on the drive, gave the dog a thorough rubdown, sleeking his coat to a shine. Amazing how good he looked despite his half-starved condition. Laying another clean towel over the passenger seat of the cab, she told him to load up.
He knew the command, hopping right up into the bucket seat, sitting as straight and dignified as if he'd spent his life riding in the best vehicles.
Considering only briefly her promise to herself about no mud in the cab, she closed the passenger door, slid into the driver's seat and headed for the market. Some promises, at certain moments in your life, were indeed made to be broken.
She was inside the market and out again breaking all records, her mind filled with stories of hyper-energetic weimaraners who had torn up the insides of a car or travel trailer with amazing speed and efficiency. In one instance involving a brand-new RV, a weimaraner with tooth-and-claw enthusiasm had created 20,000 dollars' worth of damage in less than half an hour while the dog's family grabbed a quick lunch.
Tossing a fifty-pound bag of dog kibble into the truck bed, and dropping the bag containing her deli sandwich next to her on the bucket seat, she headed for the little park at the bottom of her street where she and the dog could share their breakfast. In a fit of possessiveness she had bought, from the market's pet section, a new leather collar, a leather leash, a choke chain, and a long retractable leash that would make Dallas laugh. No competent dog trainer would be caught dead with such a contraption, but for the time being she thought it might be useful. She had not seen behind her as she headed down the hill from her duplex, the two cats taking off on their own urgent errand, racing across the neighbors' yards and down the hill in the direction of Molena Point PD.
Nor would she have paid any attention. She would have no reason to think that the cats were headed for Curtis Farger's cell, to wait for her and Rock. That they would soon be crouched outside the high cell window which, on this bright morning, should be wide open, secured only by its heavy iron bars. She would have no reason to imagine that four-legged spies would be waiting, intent on any scrap of information she might glean from the young bomber.
11
News of a murder in Molena Point traveled swiftly through the village, flashing from phone to phone, to on-the-street conversation, to phone again to gossip passed on by waiters, customers, shopkeepers, in short from friend to friend. Clyde Damen listened to the details as related to him by his supervising mechanic while Clyde inspected the engine of a '96 BMW. Turning away from the sleek convertible, he went into his office to call Ryan. When her phone rang ten times and no answer, he called Wilma.
Wilma had heard about the murder from the tortoise-shell cat when the kit came running home. The kit had heard about the death as she lingered beneath a table of the Courtyard Cafe. Kit would have been a witness to the police investigation except that early that morning she had veered away from Joe and Dulcie as they raced down the hills toward Ryan's duplex following the sirens like a pair of cheap ambulance chasers.
The kit, heading into the village, had trotted along the sidewalk sampling the aromas from half-a-dozen restaurants. She had paused before the Swiss House patio examining the fine scent of sausages and pancakes. With whiskers and ears forward and her fluffy tail carried high she padded into the brick patio to wind around friendly ankles, smiling up at tourist and local alike, at whoever might feel generous.
The kit was not an opportunist. But having spent most of her short, transient life running with bigger cats who took all the garbage, leaving her with none, she viewed the matter of food seriously. Not until she met Joe and Dulcie and her first human friends, did she realize she could stop snarling over every morsel, that some cats and humans enjoyed sharing.