roughly three feet away. I wondered if he might be slightly myopic, which would account for some of his aggression.
I had been trying to decide, on my way over to the Travers’ place, whether or not it would be a smart idea to take the dog over to the cabin. After all, he was used to his own territory, and I had no stomach for keeping an animal tied up. There was no guarantee that he would be interested in sticking around my place, except perhaps for the fact that I would be feeding him.
When I pulled into the driveway, I knew immediately that I would be taking him home, no matter what. He looked impossibly lonely. The house was cold and abandoned, just like Lug-nut, and there was a yellow band of POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS tape over the front door. Any territory would be better than this.
I spoke to him softly, rubbed his tummy for a while and then unclipped his chain. That was when he gave me the “you must be crazy” look. The unexpected freedom confused the hell out of him. He made a sort of “chase me” dash for about a metre, then stopped, whirled around and cringed. I didn’t say anything, just watched him. Then he came back to his feed bowl and sniffed at it in a hopeful way.
“Soon, soon,” I said. I picked up the water bowl and filled it at the outside tap. Lug-nut inhaled it, and I had to refill it twice before he had enough. I had planned to feed him from the food bag under Francy’s kitchen sink, but I didn’t relish the thought of sneaking past the police tape. There might be a hidden camera in there or something, and they might decide I was returning to the scene of the crime. On the other hand, I didn’t have much extra cash, and dog food is expensive.
“What do you think, dog?” I said. “Should we do a spot of B&E?” He wagged his tail, which I took to be permission from the only available resident. He followed me up to the door, which the police had very kindly left unlocked. I ducked under the tape, but Lug-nut refused to come in, although I assured him it was okay. He just sat there on the doorstep, whining and shivering. Maybe he had some sixth sense about what had happened there, or maybe he could smell the blood, I don’t know.
“Hey, it’s okay, Luggy,” I said, patting his ugly head. “You don’t have to come in if you don’t want to. Just don’t go anywhere, okay? Stay!” The word was obviously a recognizable command. He lay down immediately, his head between his paws, looking up at me. “Good dog!” I said. Great White Dog Wrangler. That’s me. I went inside.
The kitchen was just as I had last seen it. The police hadn’t done any friendly housecleaning, and the bloodstains on the floor had darkened to a rust-colour, which was much easier to cope with than the fresh puddles I had slipped in the day before.
There was a stomach-churning, coppery smell in the air, though, and I breathed through my mouth.
The beer bottles were still on the table, although there seemed to be fewer than there were before. Becker and Morrison must have taken some of them away as evidence. I knew that at least a few of the bottles would have Francy’s prints on them, and I felt very afraid for her. The remaining few showed traces of a grey-ish powder, which I assumed was fingerprinting dust, just like in the movies. The whole scene was like a movie set, actually, as if the crew had just stepped away to go on a lunch break. It was spooky.
I glanced at the rack beside the door and John’s shotgun was missing, but that didn’t mean much. The police certainly would have taken the gun with them to do tests on, if it had still been there when we discovered the scene.
The teapot was dry as a bone, of course. I checked.
I tiptoed to the kitchen cupboard, uneasy in this empty, eerie house where John’s violent death was still very much a reality. The house would probably never be the same, to Francy, anyway, if she ever got the chance to come back to it. I had spent a lot of time with her in this kitchen, sitting at the big table, sorting herbs and gabbing, talking about pregnancy and babies, Francy’s commercial art business and my puppets. We never spoke about the past. We rarely talked about John, or about Francy’s life before Cedar Falls. She was one of those people who lived in the moment, completely. I only hoped that the “moment” she was in now, presumably at Aunt Susan’s, wasn’t as awful as this kitchen was.
I opened the cupboard door with the edges of my fingernails and hauled out Lug-nut’s kibble. John had been obsessive about not letting anybody feed the dog but him, so taking the food was almost like stealing from the dead. He had been an uncomfortable man to be around—continually seething with some wrong, imagined or otherwise. I had always felt that he was on the very edge of exploding and had he been there I would not even have gone near the cupboard. I remembered Spit’s ghost story and imagined John’s spectre, enraged at my trespassing, flapping around my head like an angry vulture.
I was just standing up, with the heavy bag cradled in my arms, when I heard something upstairs. Just the creak of a floorboard, maybe, but it was enough for me. I beat it so fast out the front door, I forgot about the police tape and broke through it like Donovan Bailey winning a gold.
Lug-nut was right there where I had left him and wagged his tail as I burst through the tape, but he did not get up.
“Ummm, good boy, Luggy,” I said. He still lay there like a coiled spring. John, for all his neglect of the dog, had certainly trained him well. There must be a magic word.
“Ummm… that’s all right. You can get up now.” Nothing. “It’s okay, Lug-nut!” I said with some exasperation and he leaped about two feet in the air and started running in circles around me. That was it, then. “Okay.” Simple enough. I would have to watch what I said around him, though. There was probably some secret command lodged in his doggy brain that would send him off into attack mode.
Now that I was outside, I laughed at myself for being spooked. If there had been anybody in the house, Lug-nut would have let me know. The overhead creak was probably just the old house settling on its foundations.
I walked sedately to the truck and after I had deposited the dog food in the back with the grain, I returned to the yellow tape to see if I could fix it. Either that, or I would have to call up Becker and tell him that I had broken in. If I didn’t, he’d be off on some wild goose chase, further and further away from finding the real murderer.
The tape had been stapled to both sides of the door, and my dash outside had ripped one end away from the staple, which was still embedded in the door frame. I glanced over my shoulder to make sure that nobody was watching, then used my Swiss Army knife to wriggle the staple out. I lifted the tape back into position, poked the prongs through the plastic just to the right of the original holes and hammered it back with the butt of the knife.
Satisfied, I turned back to the driveway. The cops would have to study it pretty closely to know that it had been tampered with. I was betting that they wouldn’t check to see if the dog food was still there, any more than they’d check to see whether there was still cereal in the cupboard.
Lug-nut had disappeared.
“Shit,” I said aloud. I called his name, and immediately got an answering bark from the quonset hut next to the house. “Come, here, boy!” I said. I know my dog-wrangling techniques from reading Ted Wood’s books. When Wood’s cop-hero tells his wonder-dog Sam to Come, Stay, Keep, or Attack, the dog responds with impeccable, life-saving promptness and barrels full of loyalty.
Lug-nut did not come.
I went into the building to get him.
I’d never been in John’s garage before. Like the dog, it had been his private domain—men only. It was like a mad mechanic’s laboratory. The colours were muddy, all brown and black, and everything was covered
