“Sure. Straight ahead about a mile.”
Holly got the car going. “Do you know Hank Doherty?”
“Sure, everybody knows him.”
“Tell me about him.”
“He and the chief did a lot of drinking together.”
“Where? Did they have a regular place?”
“There’s a bar up the road. They were in there a lot.”
“Doherty raises dogs?”
“That’s right, only I don’t think he does it much any more. It’s a shame, too. He was a kind of wizard with dogs.”
“Retired?”
“Well, chief, Hank does a lot of drinking, even when he’s not with the chief. I’ve heard rumors he was real sick. I think he’s in a lot of pain, you know? He’s in a wheelchair. He doesn’t have any legs. Vietnam.”
“Oh.” She wondered why her father had never mentioned Doherty’s lack of legs.
“It’s right up ahead, here,” Jimmy said, pointing at a small house set only a little back from the road.
Holly pulled into the short driveway and stopped the car. A sign on the front-yard fence read DOHERTY’S DOGS. SECURITY AND OBEDIENCE TRAINING. She got out of the car and walked through the gate into an ill-tended front yard. She walked up the steps to the front porch and rang the bell. Jimmy stood next to her. Nobody came to the door. She rang the bell again, with the same result.
“He seems to be out,” Holly said.
“He doesn’t go out, except with the chief. The chief would come by here after work, get Hank into his car and drive down the road to the Tavern, where they did their drinking. A black lady did his grocery shopping and cleaned house for him.”
Holly went back to the driveway and walked toward the rear of the house. A dirty white van was parked in an alcove. A ramp led from the back door of the house to where the van was parked. She looked into the vehicle: it was fitted with hand controls for the brake and accelerator. She walked up the ramp and tried the door. It was unlocked.
“Let’s take a look inside,” she said. “Maybe he’s passed out or something.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Jimmy said.
Holly walked through the door and found herself in a kitchen. The remains of breakfast were on a table in the center of the room. “Mr. Doherty?” she called out. “Hank?”
She started for the door on the other side of the kitchen, then stopped. As if by magic, a dog had materialized in the doorway—a Doberman pinscher, strongly muscled.
The dog emitted a low growl and its lips curled back, revealing large white fangs.
Holly stopped. “Hello, puppy,” she said. She had had a dog as a little girl, but when it was hit by a car, her father had talked her out of getting another one. An army life was nomadic, and a dog was a lot of baggage.
The dog growled more loudly.
“Jimmy, back out of here,” she said. “And don’t run.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Jimmy replied.
Holly stood her ground. “Hello, puppy,” she repeated.
The dog repeated its previous statement.
They seemed to be at an impasse.
CHAPTER
6
Holly waited a moment, then got down on her knees and held out a hand, palm down. “C’mere, puppy,” she cooed, as sweetly as she could. “Come see me.”
The dog stopped growling but didn’t move, still eyeing her suspiciously.
“Come on over here and see me, sweetheart. You’re a good dog. Come on, now.”
The dog made a small sound in its throat and slowly walked toward Holly. It sniffed the outstretched hand.
Holly stayed still for a moment, then stroked the dog’s muzzle with the backs of her fingers. “Yes, you’re a good dog; you’re not going to eat me, are you? I certainly hope not.”
Then the dog did an odd thing: it took Holly’s fingers gently in its mouth and tugged.
Holly had to put out her other hand to keep from falling on her face, but the dog didn’t let go. It continued pulling. Holly got to her feet and followed the dog, which backed through the kitchen door, towing her into a hallway, then dropped Holly’s hand and turned toward the closed door at the end of the hall. The door was in terrible shape; it was covered in deep scratches.
“I guess you wanted to go in there,” Holly said. “Just a minute, and I’ll open it for you.” She turned the doorknob and pulled the door open. The dog ran into the room, which was a reception area, and disappeared around the front desk into the rear part of the room. Holly followed. As she turned the corner of the desk, she stopped dead in her tracks. “Oh, Jesus,” she said.
A legless man lay on his back beside an overturned wheelchair; most of his head was missing. The dog lay down beside the body and laid its head on a dead hand, making small noises in its throat.
“Shotgun,” Holly said aloud to herself. She started to approach the body, but the dog lifted its head and growled. Holly stopped. “Come here, puppy. Come!” she said firmly; then she repeated herself.
The dog got to its feet and came to her. Holly stroked its face and head and scratched it behind the ears. “You’re a good dog, aren’t you? You tried to come and help Hank, but the door was closed. How did you get in the kitchen? Who put you there?” For a moment, she thought the dog would tell her. Holly stood up. On the counter beside her lay a leash and a chain collar. She picked up the collar and read the tag. “So your name is Daisy, is that right? You’re a girl, just like me.” She put the collar over the dog’s head, and attached the leash to it. “I want you to come outside with me, Daisy,” she said softly, tugging at the leash. It took more encouragement, but Daisy finally followed her through the kitchen and out the back door.
Jimmy was waiting beside the steps. “Everything under control?”
“Not exactly,” Holly said. “Daisy, this is Jimmy. I want you to stay here with him. Jimmy, pet Daisy, and get to be friends.”
Daisy allowed herself to be petted by the policeman.
“Daisy, you sit down right here.”
Daisy sat down.
“Keep her here with you. I’m going back inside.”
“What’s going on in there? Is Hank passed out?”
“Hank is dead,” Holly replied. “I’m going to phone it in, and when people start arriving, you keep Daisy here, and keep talking to her. She’s very upset, and I don’t think she’s the kind of dog you’d want to upset any more than she already is.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Jimmy said.
Holly went back into the house, gingerly picked up the phone on the front desk and punched in 911. She didn’t even know if the town had 911 service, but now was the time to find out.
“Orchid Beach Police,” a woman’s voice said. “What is your emergency?”
“This is Deputy Chief of Police Holly Barker,” Holly said. She picked up a business card from a little stand on the desk and read out the address. “I’ve got a death by gunshot at this address,” she said. “I want you to find Bob Hurst and get him out here right now, ready to work the scene. Is there a medical examiner in this town?”
“Yes, Chief, but not full time.”
“Find him and get him out here, too. I’ll need an ambulance later, but there’s no hurry about that.”
“Yes, ma’am. Have you got an ID on the body?”
“His name is Henry Doherty.”
“Hank? Ohhh, I liked Hank. Is Daisy all right?”
“Daisy is all right. Now you get moving.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Holly hung up and looked around the room. She hadn’t noticed it before, but a pump shotgun with a short barrel lay beside the body. She didn’t touch it. Apart from the dead man on the floor, the room was in good order. A desk stood in a corner, and its top was neatly arranged. She walked over and, using a pen from her pocket, poked among the papers on the desk. There was some mail—bills, mostly, but one from a Mrs. Eleanor Warner, at an Atlanta address. Holly walked around the room and looked at the rest of it. A small safe stood behind the desk, its door ajar; she’d go through that later. When she had seen the room, she walked through an open door and down another hall to a bedroom. It contained the usual furniture, except for a hospital bed with some sort of trapeze bar hanging above it. In a corner stood a pair of prosthetic legs and two canes. Apparently, Hank Doherty had not always used the wheelchair.