Gun Shy (20 page)

Less than an hour later, the door opened, and Buck came in. Miles got to his feet, regarding the uniform Buck wore with interest, but he said nothing. I stayed where I was, staring up at him. “Who called you?”

“Crystal.”

She would.

He said, tight faced, “What happened?”

I tipped my head toward Miles. “Hunting accident. He shot Cisco.”

Miles stepped forward and extended his hand. “Officer,” he said, “I’m Miles Young. And I’m afraid she’s mistaken. I was packing up for the day when I heard the shot.”

Buck looked at his hand but did not shake it. He turned back to me. “How is he?”

“In surgery.”

At that moment the door to the surgery opened and Doc came out. I jumped to my feet, but before I could speak he said, “He’s going to be fine. Bullet lodged in the muscle, not the bone. Nicked an artery, but you did right with the pressure bandage, kept him from losing too much blood. He’ll limp for a while, but I don’t see why he shouldn’t be running through the woods again in no time. He can go home tomorrow, if he does okay tonight.”

He reached into the pocket of his lab coat and brought out a capped vial. “Here’s the bullet.”

Buck took it from him. He looked at Miles. “Do you mind if I have a look at your weapon, sir?”

Miles looked at the vial, and he replied mildly, “Not at all.”

They headed toward the door, and I said to Doc, “I want to see him. I want to sit with him.”

He knew better than to try to stop me that time.

I sat on the concrete floor by the open door of the kennel, my hand resting on the cool fur that covered Cisco’s hip. He looked shrunken, like a stuffed toy, and even his fur didn’t look real—it was dry and lifeless and stuck up in all different directions, like it had been glued on. Above and below the long line of black stitches on his shoulder, the fur had been shaved bare from neck to midriff, and it looked pathetic. He was still deeply unconscious from the anesthesia, but he knew I was there. I was certain of it.

The door at the end of the corridor opened, and I knew from the sound of the footsteps that it was Buck who entered. He squatted down beside me, smelling of cold outdoors and gun oil—two scents I would always associate with Buck. Tonight they brought me no comfort.

I said tightly, without looking at him, “Where’s Wyn?” I knew I should have regretted the words the minute I spoke them, but I did not. I was filled with rage, filled with hate. I had not yet come to realize that the person I hated was myself. I repeated, “Where’s your partner?”

A brief silence, then he said, “Off duty.”

I still didn’t look at him. I stroked Cisco’s dull, lifeless fur, and willed him to know I was there.

Buck said, “You owe Mr. Young an apology. He didn’t shoot Cisco.”

Now I looked at him, sharply. “Of course he did. He’s an idiot. He shouldn’t be allowed to own a gun. He—”

“He was carrying a deer rifle,” Buck interrupted, “and that’s all. The bullet Doc took out of Cisco’s shoulder belonged to a forty-five caliber handgun.”

I stared at him, and Buck said, “Look for yourself.” He opened the vial and tipped the bullet into my hand. I felt an immediate repulsion for the cool metal against my skin, and I quickly returned the bullet to him. But he was right. It had come from a handgun, not a rifle.

My head was fuzzy. It didn’t make sense. “Who hunts with a forty-five? What were they doing out in the woods with a handgun?”

Buck said, “I had some boys go check out the place where it happened. Guess you didn’t realize how close you were to the lake, to the cabin where Mickey White was found.” His steady gaze held mine. “The police tape had been broken. Somebody had been in there. The place was trashed. So why don’t you tell me what you were doing up on the lake trail this afternoon?”

He sounded so officious, so calm and in control and just-this-side-of-TV-cop that I think, at that moment, something snapped inside me. I said, low in my throat, “You don’t get to talk to me like that.” I turned on him. “You’re not my uncle. You’re not even my husband. You’re for damn sure not the sheriff, and you don’t get to talk to me like that! Where were
you
? Why weren’t you there when I needed you? This never would have happened if you’d been there, damn it, Buck, you’re supposed to be there!”

I couldn’t believe it. My nose was running, my face was wet and my throat was filled with mucus. Before I knew it his arm was around me, and I was sobbing against his shoulder. It was painful weeping, the kind that stabbed behind my eyes and robbed my breath and made ugly choking sounds come from my chest. He held me tight against him, with one hand pressing into the back of my skull, until I exhausted myself with the force of it.

As I lay hiccuping against him, he said softly. “Ah, baby. Hell of a week for you, huh? I’m sorry for my part in it.”

I squeezed my eyes tightly closed. “You’re my best friend, Buck. Do you know how bad it feels to hate your best friend? I can’t stand to think about losing you.”

He took my face in both his hands, and he moved me away from him, so that he could look into my eyes. His own eyes were dark and serious. He said, “I’ll always be your friend. I’ll always be here for you. Listen to me, and believe that.” His fingers tightened briefly on my face, as though to press the truth of his words into my brain, and then relaxed.

He pushed back my hair, and his eyes followed the path of his hands, tracing over my face as though memorizing it. He said softly, but steadily, “We have some papers to sign, okay? We’ve got some growing up to do, some things to face. But between us, it’s okay. I’ll always be there for you, Rainey. I’ll always be your friend.”

I tried to draw in a deep breath, hiccuped and nodded. He pulled out a handkerchief. I blew my nose.

He said, “What happened up there?”

So I told him about Sandy Lanier, about Letty Cranston’s phone call and the affair that Leo White had had, and how David Kines had threatened to have Leo killed. I told him how Sandy had reacted when she met Hero and learned of Mickey’s death, and about Ringo showing up, lost and alone, at the campsite. I even told him about my call to David Kines.

To someone else, his expression might have been impassive. But I recognized the tight, grim lines that bracketed his mouth when I was finished.

He said, “I’ll put out an all-points for Sandy Lanier. Don’t worry. If she’s still around here, we’ll find her.”

He reached past me and laid his hand on Cisco’s chest. He kept it there for a long moment, in quiet affection, and then he straightened up. “Come on. I’ll give you a ride home.”

I shook my head. “I’m staying. Ethel will bring me a cot or something. I’m not leaving him.”

He did not seem surprised. “Where’s your car? I’ll have one of the boys bring it by here for you before morning.”

I told him, and he stood. “I’ll take care of it,” he said, and I knew he would.

He turned his gaze toward the kennel where Cisco lay, and his expression softened. “Get better, big guy,” he said.

I watched him go, but I didn’t speak until the door had closed behind him. And then all I said was a very soft, “Good-bye, Buck.”

I turned to Cisco, entwining my fingers in his fur, and there I stayed until morning, until his wet, licking kisses nudged me to wakefulness.

“We have a lost dog here by the name of Ringo, brown and white, picked up day before yesterday on the Old Forest Service Road. I understand his owner’s name is Sandy. So, Sandy, if you’re listening out there, how about giving us a call at the radio station, or stop by Dog Daze Boarding and Training Center off of County Road 16. Raine Stockton is taking good care of him, but your pup wants to go home.

“Funeral Services for Ima Lee Tucker will be held tomorrow afternoon at two at Calvary Baptist Church. Visitation tonight from six to eight at Sutter’s Funeral Home. The family requests—”

I snapped off the radio. The station had been faithful about announcing Ringo’s whereabouts at the top of the hour, every hour. If Sandy had access to a radio, she knew where her dog was. But it was beginning to seem less and less likely that she would do anything about it—either because she couldn’t, or because she didn’t want to.

And I simply couldn’t believe that I had misjudged her that badly.

Buck had confirmed that Sandy Lanier had, in fact, been Mickey White’s physical therapist. He had tracked down her vehicle registration and had a lookout for her car, but that was all I knew about the investigation. It was, in fact, all I wanted to know.

No one had to point out my error in judgment in taking matters into my own hands instead of turning over my information to the authorities. The consequences of my foolishness gazed at me with sweet, forgiving eyes from his plush dog bed in the quiet storeroom that opened off the office. Occasionally he would entertain himself by chewing on a Nylabone or licking the cheese out of a rubber Kong toy. He took lots of naps, and got an abundance of petting and as many treats as the vet would allow. Sonny said—and I had no reason to dispute this—that in Cisco’s opinion, this was the best time of his life.

In truth, dogs recover from major traumas like illness and surgery with a great deal more aplomb than people do. Some think it’s because they process pain differently, and others believe it’s because dogs don’t worry themselves to death, as people tend to do. All I know is that my biggest struggle was in keeping Cisco quiet and resting, instead of bouncing up and down the stairs and wrestling with the other dogs. It was for that reason that I had installed him in the storage room, safely behind a baby gate, close enough so that he could see me and I could stop by and pet him every few minutes, but out of the center of traffic and, hopefully, away from anything that would excite him.

“Are you sure you don’t mind doing this?” I asked Maude as she pulled on her coat and her lightweight driving gloves.

“Not a bit of it. I’ll enjoy the drive, and it’s been ages since I’ve seen Katie. Not since her wedding, in fact.”

My cousin Kate was flying in that afternoon with plans to stay for a couple of weeks to help out Aunt Mart after Uncle Roe was released from the hospital. Naturally, I couldn’t bear to leave Cisco, even for the few hours it would take to pick Kate up from the Asheville airport and return. But even if it had not been for Cisco, I couldn’t have left the kennel. Wes Richards was coming by in less than an hour to evaluate Hero, and I had to be here.

“We’ll stop by the hospital first,” Maude said, “and then we’ll go get a bite to eat before I settle her in at home. Are you sure you don’t want to meet us in town?”

I glanced over my shoulder at Cisco and she smiled. “Never mind. I’ll see you in the morning, then.”

She opened the door, and then turned back. “Oh, and don’t try to move that kerosene by yourself. I’ll help you load it on the dolly in the morning and get it over to the shed.”

Every October we ordered a fifty-gallon drum of kerosene to use in the emergency kennel heaters in case of a power outage. And every year the delivery man dropped it off in front of the kennel instead of taking it to the storage shed fifty feet away as we repeatedly asked him to do.

“Don’t worry,” I said. I reached down to absently stroke Hero’s ear. “As soon as Wes Richards leaves I’m going to clean up some paperwork and call it a day. I feel like I could sleep for about a week.”

“Probably wouldn’t hurt you a bit,” she said.

Cisco and Hero seemed to have come to a détènte, probably because, from Cisco’s point of view, there was absolutely no doubt who was Best Dog around here, and it was himself. Cisco seemed to have no problem with Hero keeping me company in the office, nor did he object when Hero shared his space in the storeroom, where a spare crate was set up. After all, it was Cisco who was lying on an orthopedic dog bed with his own personal water dish embossed with silver paw-prints so close that he only had to stretch out his neck to drink from it, surrounded by toys and gourmet munchies. He probably felt he could spare a little pity for the visiting dog.

I spent some time reviewing Hero’s commands, but it was a halfhearted effort that brought me little pleasure. Hero was a great dog, but Buck had been right when he called me a groupie. I always wanted bigger and better; I always expected more. I had forgotten that I already had a hero, and his name was Cisco.

Over and over in the past two days I had replayed the details of the incident in my mind, and tried to make it match what Buck had told me. Someone had invaded the cabin that Mickey and Leo White had rented, and had trashed it. It didn’t take much imagination to assume they were looking for something, and that the something they were looking for might have been a bag full of gold coins.

Then along I come, thrashing through the woods, getting much too close, making far too much noise . . . had the shot been meant for me? Cisco had seen something in the woods that startled him, and he had lunged for it. In doing so, had he saved my life?

If this were one of those television cop shows that my aunt liked to watch, there would be a manhunt in force right now, roadblocks would be in place, forensic investigators would be working all sorts of miracles, and within twenty-four hours the killer of Mickey White would be behind bars with an unbreakable chain of evidence and the case would be solved. In real life, in a small town in the Smoky Mountains, things are a little messier—and a lot slower. The person who had shot Cisco was still at large. And so was Mickey White’s murderer.

And there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about either one.

Wes Richards arrived right on time in a white van with COASTAL ASSISTANCE DOGS stenciled on the doors in red letters. I gently closed the door to the storage room where Cisco was napping, and went out to meet him.

He was much younger than I had expected. He shook my hand firmly, thanked me profusely for what I had done for Hero and accepted my offer of a cup of coffee. Maude had made the coffee, not I, and the fact that he drank it stoically, without complaint, raised him quite a few notches in my regard.