approaching vehicle, the raised headlights of a large truck, the lights on high beam expanding at a speed that said it was going faster than anybody should be travelling on this kind of backroad, especially with a pedestrian here glowing like a jack-o-lantern.
The dog came pelting out of a driveway, and the truck veered away from the dog and straight at Dion, and his instincts already had him heading for the shoulders of the road. Drenched in light, he scrambled up the high snowbank, and the truck’s bumper sheared off a great swath inches from his leg, straightened out sharply and kept going, fast.
Dion watched its tail lights disappearing. He heard a yelping and looked at the road and saw blood.
He stood over the injured dog, a shaggy black animal, middle-sized. The dog was no longer yelping, its eyes rolling at him sadly. The damage was bad. There were guts and crushed limbs, and he had his phone out to call 911. But you don’t call 911 for animals, do you? You bundle them in your car and take them to the vet. Or as a last resort, you shoot them in the head.
He crouched down. An injured person shouldn’t be moved, but did the same go for dogs? Out in the middle of the road like this, it posed a hazard. He scooped his arms carefully under the creature, embraced it, and with difficulty got to his feet, smelling feces and blood, feeling its rear end hanging heavy. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” he said, rushing up the driveway from which the dog had appeared. The house at the end of the driveway was a tall A-frame with lots of fancy detailing, its front smothered in oversized, soggy looking bushes. The windows were lit with cold white light. He had no hands free, so he gave the door at the top of the steps a thump with his boot. A medium-strong thump, loud enough to be heard, not so loud as to frighten.
The door opened, and a woman looked out at him. She looked at his face, and then at the dog dying in his arms. “Oh my god, Coal,” she said.
* * *
He knew who she was, Mercy Black-something, who managed the band. Coal lay on a blanket in the living room, beyond help. The woman was of average height, and slim and elegant, even in a thick bathrobe over long johns. Her long hair was light brown, clean and shiny and combed sleek. She knelt over the dog now, murmuring what sounded like a prayer.
The dog was no longer squirming and lay still. Dion looked around at the large, fairly bare living room. There was a two-seater and an armchair of white leather and chrome, which belonged more in a West Vancouver condo than a dilapidated Victorian in a tiny northern village. Three of the rough walls had been partially stripped down to show thin strips of wood nailed up at a diagonal, and the battered wood floor was strewn with old plaster. Sheet plastic lay here and there, and there was the strong smell of some kind of chemical in the air, varnish or paint stripper or glue thinner. A small wood stove crackled, but the room was cold. Or maybe it was just him, chilled by his close call with the truck, his horrific experiences with the dog. He looked from the woodstove to the one unmolested wall. A series of black-and-white photographs were up in frames, hanging over the blocky white-leather-and-chrome seating. The photographs were a series of some kind, some group shots, some showing individuals posed for the camera, and at a glance he knew they weren’t family photos but stills from her professional life. The musicians she had managed in her past, probably.
The setup confused him. She’d been active and prosperous. She’d left the city with her furniture and photos, so she was here for a prolonged stay. It wasn’t a happy stay, judging by her drawn face, yet she was undertaking renovations. By the looks of it, the renos were a DIY project and not gone at with any kind of expertise or organizational skill. Didn’t she have the funds to hire a pro? From his quick scan, it felt to him like a mild form of madness.
“He’s dead,” the woman said. She stood.
Dion went to crouch down by the animal and double-check. He was no doctor, but he’d dealt with enough deaths over the years to know when a being wasn’t coming back. He nodded at Mercy, and she said, “Could you please put him out on the back deck for me?” She crossed the room to an exterior door with a small square window and held it open for him. Dion lifted the dog again, wrapped in its blanket, and took it into what turned out to be a small, enclosed verandah. “Put him there,” the woman said, pointing to a place on the floor between a chest freezer and a basket chair. “I’ll call somebody to take him away. Can’t bury him here, his home, unfortunately. Ground’s too hard. Poor Coal. I rescued him from the pound, you know. Just hours before he would have been put down.”
Dion laid the dog down where she indicated and stood, rubbing his mucky hands on his mucky jeans. For the first time Mercy looked at him, and she gave a start, and reached out both hands, as if she wanted to either grab him or keep him at bay. “Oh no, you’ve got blood all over you.”
He stepped back. He said, “It was a pickup, with a raised suspension, I think. Dark, quite new. Know anybody around here drives something like that?”
They were staring at each other, like two actors from two different plays on the same stage, confused but determined to get through it. She raked her hands through her hair, blinking. “Everybody,” she said. “And everybody drives crazy fast on this road. You’ll never catch him.”
Dion wondered if the truck had veered to avoid the dog or was gunning at himself. He wondered if its bumper had smeared any identifying evidence into the snowbank. Jayne Spacey drove a little Rav, so it probably wasn’t her. Her ex maybe, Shane. He could do some checking, but wouldn’t. Not enough data and not enough interest to bother.
He followed Mercy to a bathroom, and she left him to wash off at the sink. The bathroom was large and its fixtures had once been grand but had become loose and rattly, the finish rubbed flat. The toiletries looked pricy and the towels were white and fluffy, too good for a filthy man to be washing off dog shit and blood, so he filled the sink with hot water and used his palms to scrub his face and neck. He used the hem of his T-shirt to dry off.
When he came out she was in the living room, and she had a tumbler of Scotch in each hand. She held out a glass and said, “You look like you need this. I know I sure do.”
He took the drink and drained half the glass. He was studying her face, looking for signs of trauma. He’d never owned a dog, but Looch had, once. It was a terrier. The dog had died of old age, and it was the only time Dion had seen Looch break down and bawl. It had taken at least a week for the man to regain his spirits, but he’d never wanted another dog, that’s how painful it had been.
Mercy seemed depressed, but he had the feeling she’d been depressed before he kicked the door. She said, “I put some more wood in. I’m already running low and rationing. This is my first real winter here, and I thought two cords would be plenty. It’s impossible to keep this house warm. It’s impossible to stay warm anywhere in this horrible place.” She gave a shiver and then frowned with what he took to be anger at herself. “I’m sorry if I offended you. I didn’t mean to insult your hometown. You’re from around here?”
He wasn’t offended. He wasn’t actually listening, much, his mind still full of headlights and tail lights, and a dog in pain, a dog gone quiet, facing its own death but looking up, making contact in its last moments. He was still thinking of Looch’s terrier, and close to tears, and hating himself for it. He hadn’t cried in his life till waking from coma, and now look at him. Disgusting. Weak and weepy and afraid of everything, he couldn’t get through a day without his eyes welling up, sometimes without warning. Sometimes out of the blue.
To hide the tears, he looked at the walls, fixing on the photographs, all those people and their instruments. Mercy featured in many of the photos. There she was in an outdoor shot, a casual but posed group photo. She stood between two men, an arm around each. The lighting was strange, not quite natural.
He
