Gone to the Dogs (24 page)

As I was saying, about halfway between Medford Square and Mass. Ave., Rowdy woke up, and when
he began to make noise, I initially assumed that he’d assessed where we were and was glad to be back home. But the sound was wrong, a loud, deep, insistent growl. I could hardly believe it. Rowdy always waited until we got to a rest area. Then I remembered the fruitcake. Kimi had returned her share. Rowdy had kept his. Until now. Ordinarily, I might have told him to wait. I wasn’t sure he could. I’m not particularly car-proud, and, in any case, I’ve had plenty of practice in stain and odor removal, but it’s really abusive to force a fastidious dog like Rowdy to soil his own quarters.

Where else could Miner be headed except to Steve’s clinic? The Bronco was built for snow. After a brief stop, I’d catch up. Ahead on the right was what I remembered as a small baseball field with a parking lot. I pulled in. When I opened the door and stepped out, the snow in the air and underfoot felt heavy and wet. Much more carefully than I’d done that day at Steve’s clinic, I eased open the tailgate and got both dogs safely out. With my hands locked on their leashes, I walked them to the field. Then … Look, I hate euphemism, but who wants the details? Rowdy was in a hurry, but he wasn’t sick, okay?

And he wasn’t the one who slowed us down. The sight of the open field of deep, even snow drove Kimi into a near frenzy. Some dogs are eternally half puppy. She wanted to bound around, dash in circles, plunge down, leap up, and race across that wide expanse of white. She nearly tore the leash from my hands. Rowdy, who still considered her only half civilized, watched her jump around and yank at the leash. Then he calmly and gently pounced on her and held her to the ground. I knew he’d do it. I counted
on him. Obedience moralist, are you? Yes, she shouldn’t have been out of control, and, yes, I probably shouldn’t have let Rowdy do my work for me. He was fast and effective, though. And remember? I was pressed for time.

With the dogs back in the car, I moved as quickly as I could and reached the intersection with Route 2 in what felt like no time. In Cambridge, a plow gone astray may occasionally leave an accidental path down the middle of a side street, but the city does remove the snow from the major roads. Plows and traffic had cleared the Fresh Pond traffic circle, and cross-country skiers made dark, graceful shapes on the paths near the pond itself. The maintenance service run by a cousin of Lorraine’s had already plowed out the parking lot of Steve’s clinic. Miner had parked the small red car where Steve usually left his van. Lights were on downstairs in the clinic, but the upstairs apartment was dark.

I looked around for Steve’s van. Maybe he’d moved it when the plow arrived. I hadn’t planned to do this alone. The dark windows on the second story reminded me of Jackie Miner. She’d lived up there. Where had she died? The gruesome playground dirge that had plagued me the night before suddenly began to run through my head again, but this time, instead of the endless replaying of the nasty little refrain, I heard the first verse. Remember? Or have you managed to forget?

And I’d lost the next words. They didn’t matter. Lee had bent Jackie’s arms and legs, and he’d shrouded her in a thick garbage bag before he’d dumped her in the freezer like a dead dog. He hadn’t even wrapped her in a big white sheet.

I parked behind the clinic, where the Bronco wouldn’t be visible from inside. When I got out, I locked the door and checked to make sure I’d locked the tailgate, too. Then I moved quietly toward the building and under the windows. I don’t know what I expected to see. The windows are high. The blinds were down. I saw what I’d seen from the Bronco: lights. Inside, a dog barked. Mattie? I took quick, silent steps to the red car and looked for dog tracks in the long streaks of packed snow left by the plow. I checked the wooden steps to the back entrance to the clinic, too, but they’d been carefully shoveled and showed nothing. When I moved back to one of the windows, it seemed to me that over the swish and spatter of cars passing on the street, I heard someone talking. A voice on the radio? It sounded maddeningly neutral, probably male. Steve’s distinctive rumble should have been easy to recognize. I didn’t know.

I wanted so badly to hear Steve’s voice that I imagined the window opening and Steve leaning out. He’d grin, I’d grin back, and we’d have nothing more pressing to do than take our four beautiful dogs to Fresh Pond to play in the new-fallen snow. Steve and
I would run, trip, and land in a fresh drift. Then we’d make angels in the snow while the dogs leaped over us and chased each other back and forth. Kimi would dance her great, joyful circles; Rowdy would roll and twist; India would yelp with excitement; and little Lady, Steve’s pretty, timid pointer, would hide behind her master.

But the window remained shut. Was Steve there at all? If so, he’d certainly have identified Mattie as a Chinook the second he saw her. He’d seen Bear, and once you know what a Chinook is, you can’t miss. If Steve were in there, he’d make sure that nothing happened to her. Of course, that was exactly what Oscar Patterson had tried to do, too, wasn’t it? And Patterson had been a veterinarian. He’d been Miner’s employer. They’d fought, presumably about a Chinook dog. Patterson had died.

For the first time ever, I wished I were one of those dangerous people who never so much as run out for groceries without making sure that their car guns are ready in case some fool drops a carton of eggs or spills the milk. I do own a handgun—why is another story—and I briefly considered tearing home for it, tearing back, and staging some kind of Annie Oakley act, but I was afraid that either Mattie or Steve would be dead by then. The only weapon I had was Lee Miner’s fear of big dogs.

When I opened the tailgate and grabbed their leashes, Rowdy and Kimi leapt joyfully out, tails waving back and forth like beautiful white plumes. That’s how the breed standard says a malamute’s tail is supposed to look, you know, like a plume waving. It’s a good standard. It says, among other things, that a malamute’s eyes have a soft expression that indicates an affectionate disposition. Affectionate? If you ever
want to take along a pair of dogs as defensive weapons, you’re better off with almost any breed other than a malamute. But I knew that Lee Miner wouldn’t gaze deeply into Rowdy and Kimi’s big brown eyes. Malamutes look something like stocky, muscular, gentle, friendly wolves, but to anyone who’s afraid of dogs, they just plain look like wolves.

You probably don’t carry around the key to your veterinarian’s living quarters, or maybe you do, but my key to Steve’s old apartment was on the ring with my own house and car keys. I hoped that Lorraine hadn’t had the lock changed. I inserted the key, and it turned. I eased open the door and listened for Willie. There was no sound, not even the voice I’d thought I’d heard from outside, but the apartment is carpeted to help with the soundproofing. I certainly didn’t hear the growl and bark of a Scottie. I don’t like muzzles, but if Willie were there, I fervently hoped he had one on. With Rowdy and Kimi hugged in tightly at my left side, I went softly up the stairs. At the top landing, I flipped on the lights and looked around. Then I headed for the door to the interior stairs that lead down to the clinic. Rowdy and Kimi looked at me as if to ask what I thought I was doing. Where were Steve, India, and Lady?

“Trust me,” I whispered.

As soon as I pulled open the double door to the stairs, I heard Lee Miner, then a second man. Not Steve. I didn’t want to go down there without the protection, however uncertain, of my dogs, but I didn’t want the jingle of their tags to announce our arrival, either. I fished in the pockets of my parka. If you train dogs, you won’t be surprised to hear that the contents of my pockets consisted of one key ring, a few miniature dog biscuits, many small hard lumps
of really, really aged Vermont cheddar, the powdered residue of freeze-dried liver treats, three white cotton work gloves, a mass of empty gallon-size plastic bags—portable pooper-scoopers—and a tangle of nylon training collars. I wrapped my hand around the tags on Rowdy’s rolled leather collar, unbuckled it, slipped on one of the training collars, and fastened his leash to it. Then I performed the same muffling operation on Kimi.

Like the apartment, the stairs are carpeted. The dogs and I descended slowly and silently to the landing that’s halfway down, and I’m proud to report that, for once, Rowdy and Kimi behaved perfectly. The stairs, the landing, and the hallway below were dark, but, of course, I knew my way around. As I took my first step down the half-flight that leads from the landing to the broad, wide hallway that forms the center of the clinic, a dog suddenly barked, a big dog, maybe a shepherd. A couple of small dogs added high-pitched warning yaps, and I heard a growl that sounded like Willie’s. I paused briefly, then kept moving until we reached the bottom landing at the foot of the stairs. When I stopped, both dogs sat. You don’t train dogs? That’s an auto sit, automatic sit. Although I’d kept them tightly hauled in at my left side, I hadn’t told them to heel, and they weren’t in their normal position for brace work. Rowdy was next to me, Kimi on the outside. Both dogs must have assumed that I’d forgotten to give the command and that I’d changed my mind about where they belonged. Regular collars off, training collars on, handler keyed up and nervous? What would any obedience dog think? No question about it. We were about to enter the ring at some new and peculiar kind of match or trial.

A rubber wedge held open the door to the exam room directly across the hall. Lee Miner, his pale face washed ashen by the surgical light, stood with his back to the counter that runs across the far wall. I tried to remember that in the blackness of the stairs, we were invisible to him.

I couldn’t see the second man, but when he spoke, I finally recognized his voice. “The straight story, you runty little bastard,” Cliff Bourque said.

Miner answered quickly and mechanically, as if emphasizing something he’d already said. “Gastric dilatation and volvulus. Gastric torsion. Bloat. And the wonderful Dr. Patterson didn’t need my help, and he let her die.” His voice was smug and gloating.

“Pain, you little fucker,” Bourque said. “I’m asking you about pain.”

Miner ignored him and said with a tone of tremendous superiority, “The great Dr. Patterson let your dog die. Emergency treatment was required. Mr. Bourque, if you say that you weren’t there, you weren’t there. I never said I saw you, you know. I never said that. Never. I heard you. That’s all I ever said. And I can see it now. This other man arrived, and instead of caring for your lovely dog, your Dr. Patterson argued with him. And your beautiful dog died. And he’d know I’d know, of course. So he ran away.”

Bourque said one word: “Mattie.”

“Mr. Bourque, you’re not listening to me.” He actually sounded put out. “You loved your dog, but I loved my wife! And now he’s come and taken her away. But we’ve got to have faith! They’ll find him! All we need to do, you and I, is wait very, very patiently, and they’ll catch up with him. You go back home to your wife, and you wait. And I’ll tell everyone
it was all a terrible mistake. I’ve talked to you, and now I know that it wasn’t you I heard. It wasn’t, was it? And now I know. No one will bother you ever again. You go home and finish grieving for your lovely dog.”

“Her name was Mattie.” He stepped toward Miner and into my range of vision. He looked larger than I remembered, and his face was cold and hard. “Everything. Every goddamned last detail. How long it took, how much it hurt. And call her by her name. Her name was Mattie.” Then he spoke her name again with a terrible intensity, almost as if he were trying to call her: “Mattie.”

The barker and the yappers were quiet now. In the silence, a dog whined loudly. My left hand rested on Rowdy’s shoulders. His muscles tensed. In spite of the darkness, I looked down toward my dogs, then placed my palms in front of their faces to signal them to stay. When I looked up, I couldn’t see Cliff Bourque, but the swinging door to the small room off the exam room was moving. Miner’s back was to me now. He seemed to be fiddling with something on the counter.

Bourque suddenly stormed back through the door shouting, “You stinking son of a bitch!”

At his heels trotted a glorious, large-bellied Chinook, her body wagging, her eyes radiant with delight. She never took them off Cliff Bourque. Mattie. Living proof. I sighed. It’s evidently what I do just as I enter the ring. Rowdy and Kimi shifted slightly in anticipation. I could hear them breathe. I kept watching the bright room. Bourque raised his arm. His hand held a heavy leather muzzle.

He spoke quietly. “You fucking
muzzled
her, didn’t you? That’s what you did. You poor bastard,
you were afraid of a
dog
. And when you got rid of me, you slapped a muzzle on her. And then Patterson walked in, and before you could rip it off, he saw it.”

Like a schoolboy being chastised by his teacher, Miner stood rigid, his narrow face frozen, his hands held submissively behind his back.

Although Miner looked terrified, Bourque sounded almost compassionate. “You poor little chicken shit son of a bitch. You were scared he’d tell on you again.” His voice was low and gentle. “But mostly you were just scared. Not scared of anything. Just scared, weren’t you? I know what that’s about. I know all about that. So you killed him. You didn’t even know what you were scared he’d do, did you? But you knew if you killed him, he couldn’t do it. You poor bastard.”

“I never hurt your dog,” Miner said. “I love dogs. I never hurt your dog, Mr. Bourque.”

“I wonder why. Yeah, I wonder. But you thought you’d got it all sewed up, didn’t you? If Patterson’s going to be Mattie, then she’s got to be dead.” He began to laugh. “Jesus Christ!” he said. “I just thought of something. Jesus Christ. Patterson would’ve loved it. He died like a goddamned dog, and he went out like one, too. I should know. Hell, I’m the guy who paid for his funeral. He’d never’ve believed it. Christ, it’s a shame he never knew.” He glanced down at Mattie and added, apparently to her, “And the damnedest thing is, he wouldn’t’ve minded at all.” Then he looked toward Miner again and asked in tone of neutral, friendly curiosity, “Hey, so what’d you do with your wife? Same thing?”