clearing followed by a whispered “yes” indicated she expected him to say more.
“Not much new. Could you explain what couldn’t be said on the telephone?”
“Let’s move away from the entrance,” Ms. Stark suggested in words clear and authoritative. “We can talk freer at the picnic table.” Her draped cloth coat fluttered.
Jonas spotted the picnic table. The west breeze a chilly March reminder buffeting left cheek as they walked twenty yards. He wasn’t surprised no individual sat on attached wood plank benches. Webster lagged. At the table, a standing Jonas gazed at Ms. Stark. “You were vague about this feared strike? There’s no strike activity I see except words ‘No Scabs’ painted at parking lot entry.”
“Not much except...” Ms. Stark’s right hand fingers touched a table bench. He heard the whispered word gross escape under her breath. As she stepped toward him, a right heel sunk into the grass that surrounded the picnic table. Her knees wobbled but she righted herself without his assistance. With balance and footing restored, a slight smile parted glossed lips. Jonas retained control of Webster. Ms. Stark glanced past shoulder, and paused as a sedan, forty yards away, entered the parking lot. Feminine blue-gray eyes returned their upward gaze at him. “The union’s rejected company proposals. If the strike’s going to happen, it should be in a week.”
“You didn’t need to summon me out here for speculation.” He focused lowered eyes on her, careful to keep gaze from wandering below shoulders. “What you told me has been in the papers.”
Webster growled and strained against the leash as Ms. Stark again extended a left hand. Jonas, by the collar, jerked Webster back. The German shepherd taxed right bicep strength.
“Papers speculate. I’m more reliable.” Manicured right hand red fingernails hovered above a jacket button and then she buried slender digits and palm in a coat pocket.
“You testing me?” Jonas arched back and gazed straight past the undulating eyelashes into uncompromising eyes. “Is that what this is?” Left free hand rubbed warmth into both facial cheeks.
“No, no. Of course not.” Her eyes fixated on him, not retreating.
He broke their stare first.
She glanced at Webster. “You have your dog long?”
Jonas squared six-foot-two frame. A shrug released upper body tension without lessening the bicep and forearm strain Webster created. “Since a puppy.”
“I’ve a cat. Perhaps he senses that?”
“Don’t know.” Jonas stifled further speculation. He didn’t need to expound on his having adopted Webster twenty months ago as one of four pups rescued from an abandoned well on the vacated Hans Westerberg farm. All present that day knew the pups hadn’t tied closed the gunnysack weighted with the concrete block. Efforts to identify the breeder proved futile.
Ms. Stark appeared bored; eyes lost welcoming twinkle, and tongue erased a smile. Jonas scanned the parking lot. Was his presence merely part of an unvoiced Jove Foods orchestration? The presence of law enforcement sometimes employed as an implicit threat to others. He could find productive things to do. A tingle of blood into numbing fingers caused him to release one loop of the leash wrapped across right palm. Webster lurched forward.
Ms. Stark raised both palms outward.
Webster extended, front paws off the ground, snapped at Melanie’s waist high left hand.
Jonas jerked looped right hand behind buttocks and dropped to right knee. He grasped Webster’s jaw, and, with two hands, forced the dog’s teeth together.
Gazing skyward at Ms. Stark, pasty facial skin matched white blouse color.
“You okay? I’m sorry.” Jonas kept hands clamped on Webster’s head.
“Believe so. Don’t see blood; feel no pain.”
“Stay here. I’ll be right back.” Jonas lifted Webster’s forty-four pounds into both arms and hustled to parked cruiser. He flung Webster onto rear passenger seat without removing the leash.
He jogged to Ms. Stark collapsed on the picnic bench. Torso quivered as if weather freezing; a bowed head stared at a front bottom jacket corner. Jonas recognized delayed shock. A half-inch cloth tear and wet dog saliva evidenced where Webster’s canine struck. Higher would’ve likely gashed hand flesh. Leaning forward for a closer look, he hesitated to close outer coat. “I’m really sorry. Don’t know what came over him. He’s only jumped at a person upon my command.”
“No big deal.” No emotion piggybacked the three words. The fabric fell from her hands.
“Did he break skin?” Jonas knew he’d have to write up a report. It had been his grand idea to add a dog to the four-person force. Now this. Webster and he attended K-9 training classes in December for two days a week for three weeks. Officially a K-9 trainee, Webster provided good company on lonely, county patrols. Jonas fenced sister’s backyard to permit Webster to romp. Now, he struggled. Without a response, again he asked, “Did he bite you?”
“No.” Emphasis added when she shook head. “Teeth snagged suit jacket, that’s all.”
“Please let me write you a check. Just tell me how much.” He tried to sound extra contrite. Any negative incident would hurt him in the upcoming full term re-election race. Why, if Webster sought to attack someone, didn’t the mutt chomp on a Saturday night drunk without family? Why select a bigwig at the county’s biggest employer?
“That’s generous, but not necessary.”
Jonas sighed, shifting weight from left foot to right, hoping worst had passed.
“Leave the dog in your car. I’ll give you the premises tour promised on the telephone.”
She stood; removed both outer coat and jacket. Traces of pink color graced cheek sides. He gazed into dull eyes before she averted his gaze. He didn’t know whether to stay close to her side or walk behind should she stagger or collapse. He tried to do both.
Within six steps, she slipped the jacket back on followed by the coat, which she buttoned.
“You sure.” Prepared arms halfway flexed, a fireman ready to catch a jumper.
“It’ll be fine.” She twisted in his direction. “I’ll give you the short tour. The one we refer to as the Cub Scout tour.” A wry half-grin appeared. “You have any questions before we start?”
He shook head no.
She explained Jove’s central Kanosh warehouse employed four hundred persons. The employees distributed dry, fresh, and frozen foodstuffs to one hundred thirty-six owned and leased stores in three Midwestern states contiguous to Iowa. He nodded for he’d memorized and peppered last year’s law and order election rally speeches with Jove Foods statistics and how good jobs complemented safe streets. He tried not to be distracted by the three-year-outdated facts she enunciated, which didn’t negate the company’s strategic importance to Kanosh’s economic viability. A lengthy strike interruption would devastate the town and the county he grew up in.
“Have you designated entrance and exit gates?” He halted step as she paused to unbutton coat and again uplift the jacket to inspect the tear
