A Bloodhound to Die for (3 page)

“This is where his followers turned him into a local hero. He sat on the bed of a friend’s pickup with the tailgate down, swinging his legs and joking with six of his buddies while they were stopped, and they were allowed to drive through four separate roadblocks. This is when the ballad was written and he became a legend.” Hank took a breath.

“Jimmy Joe was now twenty-six years old, and when he was captured this time, he was given another ten years. He escaped again when he was twenty-nine, and was only free eleven days. He was still trying to
work his way back home when he was recaptured. This time they gave him twenty years. He’s been a good boy for six years, and this brings us up to the present. Now, at thirty-five, he owes the state thirty-one years.”

“This is ridiculous,” I said. “The poor schmuck has served enough time for his crime. Why doesn’t someone whisper into the governor’s ear the circumstances of this case, and get him a pardon? Look what it’s costing the state to keep him behind bars and prosecute him for his escapes. He’s not violent and doesn’t pose a threat to anyone. Of course, this would be using common horse sense, which no one in government seems to understand or practice. But you have a reason for telling me this story. What has he done now, escaped again?”

“Nope, it’s not what he’s done, it’s what I think he may do. Last year, he put in a request to be moved closer to his home, citing hardship for his ailing parents to travel so far to visit. He had been held in metro Atlanta for the past six years. The request was granted at the last parole-board hearing. He was moved to Monroe Prison last Tuesday.”

“Uh-oh, I see your problem.”

“Yeah. The move puts him back in my bailiwick, and I don’t relish the hassle and overtime I’ll have, if I have to slog through the Okefenokee to find him.”

“Since when have you slogged through the Okefenokee?”

“Well, you’d do the slogging, but I’d still have the hassle and have to pay overtime for backup. Just remember that your exorbitant fees come out of my department’s budget.”

Hank was referring to my contract with the county to use my bloodhounds to track down criminals, lost or otherwise.

“‘Exorbitant’? Just wait until you get my next statement for services rendered. You’ll see what’s exorbitant!”

“Wrong choice of word,” he added hastily. “Does ‘expensive’ sound any better?”

“I guess. I take it that you drove out and filled me in on Jimmy Joe’s history in case he decides to escape and in case he succeeds and heads our way? Sounds a little premature to me. Maybe he’s learned his lesson.”

“You haven’t heard the whole story, yet. I haven’t told you what arrived in the mail this morning.”

“Are you going to tell me … today?”

“Hold your horses! You’re always anticipating. I want to savor this news. Seems our Jimmy Joe wrote the superintendent
weeks
ago because he wanted to add another name to the list of people who are cleared to visit him. The person he requested has been vetted and Jimmy Joe has obtained official clearance. Would you like three guesses as to whom he wishes to see?”

“Uh, the architect of the prison? A salesman for extension ladders? A friend with wire cutters? I have no idea. Enlighten me.”

“You.”

Hank was grinning from ear to ear. He saw that he had gotten the expression he was angling for, complete bewilderment plus a healthy dose of surprise.

“Moi?” I said dramatically, clutching my chest and widening my eyes, but it was too little, too late. My initial shock at the news delighted him. He sat there chuckling until I was ready to throttle him.

  
3
“A Promise to Remember”

“Y
ou got me, I was surprised, taken aback, and completely fooled. Now may we move on?”

“If you could have seen your expression!”

“I don’t know Jimmy Joe from Adam’s house cat. Why do you think he wants to see me?”

“Maybe your and your bloodhounds’ fame is spreading into the prisons. He might want to ask you how to keep from being captured by your hounds if he decides to break out of Monroe.”

“That’s a ridiculous suggestion, Hank. What could he want?”

“He might want you to start a movement to try and get him released, just like you suggested a few minutes ago, appeal to the governor or something.”

“I was just supposing,” I said. “I doubt if it would work anyway. That is all you can come up with?”

“I can tell you a surefire way of getting the correct answer to your question. Visiting hours are from one to four on Sunday. Go see him and find out.”

“No way.”

“Why not? Aren’t you curious?”

“A little,” I admitted, “but not enough to waste a trip out there. The place depresses me. It hasn’t been that long ago that I thought I might have to live there for twenty years or so. I pass.”

“You’re not going to see what he wants?”

“Nope. His predicament is not any of my business. I have enough to do here without looking for more.”

We were interrupted at this point when Bobby Lee and Rudy burst through their entrance door and came to meet us. Hank’s face brightened, and he squatted on his heels to greet them.

“Hey, champ, how you been?” He fondled Bobby Lee’s ears. “You’re wet!”

I threw Hank Bobby Lee’s towel, and watched while both of them wrestled on the carpet like children.

Bobby Lee is my special love, a roommate, and a miraculous two-and-a-half-year-old bloodhound. He has over a dozen titles, and would have more if I had time to attend all the bloodhound meets. He’s search and rescue trained and at this point he is at the peak of his profession, both physically and as a scent tracker. He is twenty-six inches at the shoulder, weighs one
hundred and fifteen pounds, and has the wonderfully colored coat called bloodhound red.

Rudy stood by and watched the tussle of dog and man, sniffed, and strolled into the kitchen to check his food dish. He wouldn’t have dampened his paws in the creek. Splashing in the dark water was abhorrent to him. He sometimes fishes off the bank at the lowest point. It’s not for the food; he never eats his catch. I am inclined to guess that he loves matching his quickness with a wary trout. He scoops it up on the bank. He’s never understood why Bobby Lee enjoys swimming on hot summer days. He thinks that Bobby Lee is his dog and during the first two years of Bobby Lee’s blindness, he walked by his side to guide, protect, and defend.

Rudy is a twenty-pound overweight black cat with startling green eyes who appeared from out of nowhere several years ago, as feral as any bobcat in the wild. It took me months to tame him before he would let me touch him, and for him to eat and sleep inside. Bobby Lee and I let him think he’s the boss and put up with his nonsense. We’re family.

Hank walked to the desk and handed me the towel. Bobby Lee settled by my right side, and Rudy was back and lay curled beside me on my left.

“Want a glass of iced tea?”

“No, thank you. If you decide to go visit Jimmy Joe Lane after all, will you let me know what he wanted?”

“Of course.”

“Promise?”

“Do you want me to cross my heart and hope to die if I don’t? I said I would. Isn’t that enough?”

Hank stood and looked uncertain. “Well, I passed on the message. I’d better be going, so you can get back to work.”

“Don’t hurry off. Stay awhile.”

Southern manners call for a polite protest at the first mention of leaving. As I didn’t press him to stay by asking him the second time, which is how you judge just how much visitors desire your company, he reluctantly departed.

Wayne and Donnie Ray were at the door before he could clear it. They stopped and greeted him.

Wayne Frazier is my kennel manager. He’s twenty-two years old, bright, with a large open face, and is totally deaf. He’s wonderful with the animals and I consider him indispensable. He usually has a wide infectious grin, but lately he seemed almost somber and moody. Something was bothering him and I was worried about him, but until he was ready to tell me, I couldn’t pry any information out of him with a crowbar.

Donnie Ray Carver is my videographer. He is self-taught, tough and feisty, and has an ego as big as a barn. He has blond hair and blue eyes and his mannerisms remind me of the late actor James Dean. I would have thought the girls would flock to him, but they kid him like a younger brother and try out their amateur wiles on
his roommate, Wayne. Donnie and Wayne live upstairs over the garage area, to the left of the main kennel.

I made a glass of iced tea and sat at my desk waiting for them to finish their conversation with Hank.

They both flopped on the two side chairs in front of my desk looking as nervous as the cat that had just swallowed the canary.

I kept my eyes on Wayne as his hands flashed his message.

“Four out of six just qualified for their field trials, out of the C class. The trainers are running the two that failed on the one-mile search this afternoon. Nathan laid the trail yesterday.”

Donnie Ray chimed in.

“The afternoon feeding is all mixed, and Doc is doing the rounds and feeding at five. He’ll handle the fourth feeding for the puppies.” Donnie Ray rushed his words, trying to get them all out before I could ask any questions.

I raised an eyebrow at Wayne and remained silent.

“Davis Racetrack is having a demolition derby this afternoon to make up for the rain check they passed out last Sunday.”

“It starts at three,” Donnie Ray added quickly.

“Then you’d better get a move on. Davis is thirty miles away. Have fun.”

They both grinned and started toward the door.

“Donnie!”

He stopped in his tracks. “Yes, ma’am?”

“No speeding!”

“Yes, ma’am!”

I sat and sipped my iced tea and stared at the pile of mail centered on my desk. It was feed bills, leather-goods invoices, credit-card statements, and much more. I write checks twice a month to pay my bills. Just a few short months ago, my pulse would have raced and I would have agonized over which ones to pay, and which ones I would put off for another two weeks.

Thanks to the generosity of my late client, Ms. Cancannon of Cat Key, I now had more than sufficient funds to operate and sustain my business. I didn’t need to sweat anymore over my bank balance, but I still didn’t enjoy the paperwork. I sighed and got to work. I wrote checks steadily and dutifully and tried not to mess up the computer. Wayne keeps neat, accurate records and is constantly cleaning up blunders that I commit. I am cursed with gremlins. If it has an electrical plug or operates on batteries, I’m jinxed.

I finished in time for a leisurely soak in the tub before Jasmine and Susan arrived. Friday nights are for viewing old movie classics, drinking beer, and eating pizza. The three of us are perennial losers when it comes to men. Dateless, we gather for some serious activities: gossiping, dissecting men, and pigging out.

I pulled on an old pair of white shorts that threatened to slip past my hips. I had to keep yanking the shorts up. A faded red T-shirt completed my outfit.

When Susan walked in, she eyed me critically and gave a theatrical sigh.

“We have to go shopping, Sidden. It’s becoming critical. You look as if you’re dressed to paint the barn.”

I gave her the once-over as I tossed pillows on the floor so we could lounge around in comfort.

Susan Comstock, my best friend since the first grade, was as fashion conscious as a New York model. She wore fabulous clothes. Her doting parents, who wished to see her married and producing grandchildren, lavishly supplemented her wardrobe.

Susan owned and managed a local bookstore, Browse and Bargain Books. Her ex-husband, Harold, ran away with a high school senior after seventeen months of marriage. Mine had lasted three years, but only because I worked like a dog to keep it going. Harold had been kind enough to stay out of the picture, but mine kept trying to beat me to a pulp. It all ended a few months back when I had finally had enough. He won’t be bothering me again.

Susan was wearing a pair of mid-thigh shorts in multicolored spandex, with a matching halter top. Her brassy, carrot-colored hair was subdued with dye to a pleasant titian hue. Her bright green contacts sparkled in the muted light of the two small lamps in the office.

“You look great, as usual. In my defense, I tried to shop this morning.”

I was telling her the aborted-shopping story when Jasmine arrived with a huge bowl of popcorn, butterless
of course. I went to the kitchen to get drinks and to melt some butter. This time, because of my weight loss, Jasmine couldn’t fuss about nutrition. In the past eight weeks, I hadn’t gained an ounce, and I am keeping my fingers crossed that I don’t pile the twenty or so pounds back on.

“That bitch Estelle is going to hear from me tomorrow,” Susan declared. “I’m also informing her I’ll never buy anything in her shop again. Ever!”

“You are a businesswoman, Susan. Stay cool, calm, and collected. You can’t continue to fight my battles for me, as you did in school. Doesn’t Estelle buy books from you?”

“I’ll throw her out the door if she ever puts one foot in my store again. I mean it!”