Dark River Road (74 page)

“Does your grandfather know?”

“About Paolo, yes. About Daddy, no. Not that he probably doesn’t suspect him of having affairs. But you know my grandfather. Anything my mother does is just fine with him. Whatever she wants, she gets. If it’s a fling with a younger man, then that’s fine with him, as long as she’s discreet. Which is why I have to pick them up at the airport. They’ve gone on a business trip to British Columbia. Some lodge up there.”

“And I used to picture your family like one of those on TV, a perfect family that sat down to dinner together every night.”

“We were. A perfect illusion.” She sounded bitter, and he looked at her until she met his eyes and shrugged. “Sorry to destroy your fantasy. No one’s perfect, I guess.”

“You didn’t destroy my fantasy. You’re the only fantasy I still care about.”

He shouldn’t have said that. He wished he could take back the words but they were out there. Cinda’s eyes widened, and her lips parted a little.

“Chantry
 . . .
do you think we have a chance? I know childhood crushes rarely last, but I’ve never forgotten you. Never wanted
 . . .
we’re adults now.”

Feeling awkward, he shoved a hand through his hair and shrugged. “Maybe we need to take it slow and easy, see how things go. You know your grandfather will do his best to break us up, never mind what your mother will say or do.”

“I know. But as I said—we’re adults now. I’m no longer that child who can be told what to do. I have my own money, my own life, and I made sure of that a long time ago. I don’t have to depend on anyone for anything.” She put down her coffee cup and moved closer, looking up at him with something like uncertainty in her eyes. “I’ve always had everything I needed and wanted, Chantry, except for one thing. Only you can give that to me, but I don’t know if you have it to give anymore.”

He had to be honest. He couldn’t lie or give her false assurances, say what he knew she wanted to hear when he wasn’t sure it was true. So he just nodded. “I don’t know either, Cinda. I think I do. You’re all I’ve ever thought about that way, but it’s been a long time since I let myself go there. It’s—”

“Risky? Yes. It is. And I can’t make promises either. All we can do is take it one day at a time.”

He smiled. “A twelve-step program for love, huh.”

“No, for commitment. I think we both know how we feel. We just need to learn to trust each other.”

“Tall order.”

“One worth aiming for, don’t you think?”

He pulled her close, rested his jaw atop her hair and let out a deep breath. “Yeah.”

After a moment she pulled away, smiled up at him. “So. See you later?”

“God, I hope so.”

She kissed him goodbye at the door, and he watched her walk up toward the big house, feet making a path in the damp grass. The sky was still a putty color that promised rain. He waited until she went inside, then he turned to go back into the house. A glimpse of something at the side of his car caught his eye and he paused, then he went to investigate.

It took a moment to connect the bundle of fur with what had once been a cat. His stomach flipped with apprehension. The badly mauled animal couldn’t possibly have crawled there to die. Someone had dumped a dead cat by the driver’s side of his car, an obvious message. He knelt down. Dogs had gotten it. Big dogs.

He took the dead cat into the clinic. Doc looked it over and agreed with him. Pit bulls were the likely culprit, animals with powerful jaws.

“Someone’s trying to tell you something, son,” Doc said as he gently wrapped the dead cat in a towel. “You know, several years back, I tried to get someone to stop the dog fights. No one gives a damn. Police, animal control—most of the time they’re just as involved as the men running the ring. It makes a lot of money. Sometimes fifty, sixty thousand is bet on which dog’ll come out winner. Hell, the head of the animal shelter sells confiscated dogs out the back door. Not just here, either. Cities all over the country have a problem, but no one wants to investigate. They’re just dogs. Doesn’t matter worth a damn that they live in fear and torment every day of their lives. Fed just enough to keep them at fighting weight, worked on weights and with chains and tires—dogs that’ll fight might live a while until they get too chewed or old to beat the next one. Then they’re thrown aside like garbage. Like they don’t have feelings. Makes me goddam sick. I’d like to see the men responsible smeared with bacon grease and put into the ring with a couple of dogs they’ve abused, see how well they do at it. But that’s not likely to happen. And it’s not likely you’ll find anyone willing to help you bust up this ring, either, Chantry, so don’t expect to get anywhere. Last man that tried ended up with broken legs, and he got off light.”

It was the most he’d ever heard Doc say at one time since he’d known him, and Chantry couldn’t say anything for a moment. He thought about Beau and Rafe, and Billy Mac Stark out there with all those dogs in pens stacked atop each other. And he thought about what they would have done to Sugarpie if he and Mindy hadn’t gone out there to get her. And then he thought about Shadow, and how Rainey used to threaten to sell him for bait, and he knew he couldn’t just look the other way no matter how futile it might be. It wasn’t in him. Hell, he’d been bucking the odds all his life and rarely won, but that didn’t mean he could stop now. He looked at Doc and shrugged.

“I know. No different than how it’s always been for me. And if I can just break up this one, that’s something.”

Doc just looked at him for a minute. Then he blew out a heavy breath. “I’ll tell you what all I know, but it’s not much.”

It was more than he expected. Doc gave him names of a few people who actually wanted to stop the fights, but warned him not to let anyone else find out. Jobs weren’t the only things at risk. Men got mean when money was involved.

After the clinic closed that afternoon, Chantry looked up the first person on the list. Lu Emma Lamar stared at him warily through her locked screen door.

“Who’d you say you are?”

“Dr. Callahan from the Cane Creek Animal Clinic. I’ve got a card if you want to see it.” He fished in his pocket and pulled out a dog-eared card to hold up. She peered through wire mesh then looked from the card to him.

“You’re that Chantry Callahan used to live in Sugarditch, aren’t you.” She said it as more of a statement than a question, like she knew all about him already.

“Yes, ma’am.” He wasn’t sure if that’d be a plus, seeing as how his reputation had usually caused more trouble than not, but after a hesitation, she flicked up the hook on the door and opened it.

“Come on in. I’ve got something on the stove, but I’ll be with you in a minute.”

He eased inside and seated himself on a well-worn but comfortable couch covered in cotton linen flowers. Familiar smells drifted from the kitchen. Chicken fried steak. He hadn’t eaten it since Mama had last cooked it. Dr. Mike called it “heart attack on a plate” and preferred steamed vegetables and baked chicken. His stomach growled.

Mrs. Lamar stuck her head around the door like she’d heard it and said, “You want to stay for supper? I cooked extra.”

He should have said no but he didn’t, and in a few minutes he sat at the kitchen table in front of a window that looked out over high weeds rustling in the wet wind while Mrs. Lamar piled mashed potatoes and gravy on his plate next to a huge slab of chicken fried steak. Battered and fried, the steak was tender and delicious. He’d never been a fan of turnip greens, but these were pretty good, and her biscuits were light and fluffy and dripping with butter. Oh yeah. Heart attack on a plate but worth the risk.

“So,” Mrs. Lamar said when the table had been cleared and she’d set out a piece of Karo pecan pie for each of them, “just what do you want to know from me?”

“You work at the Quinton County animal shelter. I need some information.”

“About selling dogs out the back door, I’ll bet.”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

An older woman, with curling gray and brown hair that waved back from her high forehead, she frowned slightly. “I’m likely to lose my job if I tell you anything. And I need that paycheck.”

“I can keep secrets.”

She looked up at him, a faint smile on her mouth. “I’d heard that. Close-mouthed, they used to say about you. Talkative as a turnip. All right. I’d like to see it stopped. I can’t bear thinking about what those poor dogs go through. They come in all scared and scarred and most of them just want to be loved—wagging tails and looking up with this hope in their eyes that makes me want to cry. Well, some of ’em are already ruined, no doubt about that, mean as junk yard dogs, but I figure they were made to be that way just to survive. Not often you run across a born-mean dog. Survival. That’s what it’s all about. Some are better equipped for it than others. Like those dogs. Like you. And some folks are like cockroaches, spreading disease everywhere they go. Those are the ones I’d like to see put down, not those poor dogs that don’t know anything other than to fight or die.”

“Maybe I can help,” he said after a minute when she got quiet and looked out the kitchen window. “Won’t know until I try.”

She looked back at him and nodded. Then her blue eyes lit up a little. “Know what the oldest profession is? No, it’s not that one. It’s animal husbandry. Says so in the Bible. Not in those words, but the first thing God had Adam and Eve do in Eden is take care of all the animals, put names to them, see to them
 . . .
looks like that bite of apple caused trouble for more than just people. Most of us haven’t been doing what we should since they got kicked out of that garden, but I do what I can. It just never seems to be enough.”

He didn’t want to talk about God or what he was supposed to do. So he just said, “What can you tell me about the dogs? Do you know who sells them? Who buys them?”

“Yep. There’s two guys that work there who do that, one of them fills out the papers that say the dog’s been put down, the other one makes a few calls and someone comes to the back door. Money changes hands, the dog goes off, and it’s marked down the dog’s dead. Simple as that. No one ever bothers to check.”

“And no one’s ever protested?”

She hesitated, then nodded. “A couple of years ago, a young girl worked there for the summer. She got real upset when she figured out what was going on, said she was going to tell the police, call the TV stations. Back then, Kyle Chesney ran the shelter. He called her into his office, and the next day she was gone. Heard that someone tried to run her car off the road on the way home.”

“So she got fired.”

“No, she quit. But that girl was terrified, I can tell you that. You might know her. Sara Ledbetter.”

“Ledbetter—Dale Ledbetter’s daughter?”

Mrs. Lamar nodded. “Her daddy called up raising cain, and I don’t know what was said, but for a while there, Chesney sure was in a bad mood. Nothing ever came of it.”

“Would you give me the names of the employees who sell the dogs?”

“Terrell Johnson and Frank Coley. And I can tell you who one of the buyers is, if you want to know that.”

He’d taken out his little notebook and scribbled down the names, and he looked up at her and nodded. “Tell me everything you can.”

“Billy Mac Stark. I saw him come ’round the back in his truck. He’s got one of those covers over the bed, like a little camper, so you can’t see that he’s got wire cages in the back.”

Paydirt on his very first visit. He stayed a while longer, ate his pie, and when he left Mrs. Lamar insisted he take home some leftovers. He had three other names, but for now, this was enough to get started. His next stop was the police station.

“I want to report a dog-fighting ring.”

The sergeant at the front desk just looked at him a minute, then said to fill out a report and they’d check on it. Chantry didn’t move to take the paperwork shoved toward him. The officer’s eyes narrowed.