Laying Down the Paw (11 page)

She opened the door only a crack at first, the frown on her face spreading into a wide smile when she spotted Dub on the walkway. “You came!”

He didn't know why she seemed so surprised. He'd told her he would. Then again, a lot of people had made promises to her that they hadn't kept.

“You look good,” he told her as she opened the door to let him inside.

“'Cause I'm not using anymore,” she said. “Those days are behind me.”

Dub had heard those same words before. They'd turned out to be a lie. He could only hope she spoke the truth this time.

She closed the door behind him. “Nice place, huh?”

Nice?
Hardly. It was a tiny one-bedroom apartment with stained carpeting and cigarette burns on the kitchen countertop, nothing like the beautiful home Trent and Wes—
and Dub
—lived in. But, compared to some of the other shitholes his mother had rented, this one was a freakin' palace. No sense putting the woman down. She'd do that herself.

“Yeah. Not bad.” Dub laid his backpack on the breakfast bar.

“Let me take you on the grand tour.” She led him first into the kitchen. He opened the pantry to find only a half loaf of white bread, a jar of store-brand peanut butter, and a bottle of imitation maple syrup. The freezer held only frozen waffles and the corn dogs she'd mentioned earlier, while the fridge contained a quart of milk, a bottle of yellow mustard, and a dozen paper-wrapped Taco Bell burritos. Not a fruit or vegetable in the house, not even a can of peaches. Some things never changed.

But had his mother changed?

She claimed she had, but was it the truth?

She led him from the kitchen into the living room, where a single faux-leather recliner faced a small television sitting atop a plastic bin. No coffee table. No lamp. And no baby grand piano like the one Trent played. He'd even taught Dub a song or two.

Dub stepped to the back of the room and pushed the dusty curtains aside to find a sliding glass door that led to a patio overlooking the apartments' murky pool. He turned back to find his mother looking up at him, her face anxious, like a child seeking a parent's approval. He supposed it made sense. Their roles had been reversed for as long as he could remember.

She led him into the bedroom next. It was a small room, barely wide enough for the full-sized mattress that lay directly on the floor. At least the pink-and-red striped comforter she'd spread over it looked clean. Her Taco Bell uniform hung from a hook on the back of the door. The rest of her clothes were stacked in a plastic bin on the floor of the open closet.

They walked back into the living room. Rather than take the only chair in the room, Dub leaned back against the breakfast bar. “I'm really glad you're doing okay, Mom.”

He was happy her life seemed to be going good now. Happy and relieved.

Wondering about the time, he reached for the cell phone he always kept in his jeans pocket. It wasn't there.

Damn.

Had it fallen out of his pocket on the bus? Or had he been so thrown off balance by his phone conversation with his mother that he'd left it back at Trent and Wes's house?

“What time is it?” he asked.

His mother glanced at the clock on the stove. “Five forty. Why?”

Dub retrieved his backpack from the counter. “I need to get going.”

“But you just got here!”

“I know. But it's a long bus ride back home and I've got homework to do.”

“No!” Tears brimmed in Katrina's eyes. “Don't leave me, Wade. Please!”

The desperation on her face and in her voice stabbed him in the heart.

“I can't stay,” he told her, feeling his resolve begin to break down even as he spoke. “You know that.”

Not long before his most recent arrest, which led to him being sent to Gainesville Child Protective Services had, once and for all, deemed Katrina an unfit mother and given up on attempts to reunify the family. She'd been a jobless, homeless drug addict. After being lied to and stolen from time and time again, Katrina's immediate family had cut all ties with her, so Dub had been sent to live with distant relatives in Katrina's hometown of Memphis—relatives who quickly grew tired of the burden and cost of housing and clothing and feeding a young boy. His own relatives had less patience for him and less concern for his welfare than the foster home he'd lived in when he was younger. When they heard Dub's mother had worked things out with Dub's father and now had a roof—
a leaky one
—over her head, they'd put him on a bus back to his mother in Fort Worth.

When Dub had later been arrested, the social worker was enraged to learn the boy had been returned to his mother against court orders. Probably not unusual, though, Dub guessed.

“Give me another chance, Dub!” His mother grabbed his arm, inadvertently digging her nails into his skin. “I'll show you! I'll be a good mother!”

Too late for that.
Dub didn't need a mother anymore. He was nearly a man. He could take care of himself. Now it was his mother who needed taking care of.

He felt himself weakening.
She needed him.
And if anyone found out what he'd done last Sunday and wanted to come after him, they wouldn't know to look for him here.

Seeming to sense that Dub was giving in, Katrina wrapped her arms around him in a bear hug, sobbing into his shoulder. “You're all I've got, Dub! Without you I've got nothing!”

He hated to disappoint Trent and Wes, hated to lose all the progress he'd made, but what could he do?

He had to stay. He had to keep his mother safe. Because no matter how Dub's situation turned out, he knew that, at some point, his mother would take up with Andro again. She couldn't help herself.

And this time Andro was liable to kill her.

 

SIXTEEN

EXTRA CREDIT

Megan

On Saturday morning, in recognition of Valentine's Day, I put a white collar with red hearts on Brigit. Just because the dog was a K-9 officer didn't mean she couldn't look festive, right? Besides, she had a date with Blast tonight. Might as well look like she'd made some effort, even if he wouldn't appreciate it. Her male counterpart would probably prefer she roll in garbage prior to their meet-up.

As I dressed myself, the morning news played on the television, the forecaster mentioning that warm air flowing up from the Gulf of Mexico would create early-spring conditions, but that the Canadians were fighting back by sending a simultaneous cold front down from the north. This international weather war would be fought out over the Southern Plains region which included Arkansas, Oklahoma, and Texas. In other words, we Fort Worth residents should be prepared for the potential of rapidly changing outdoor conditions today. Thus forewarned, I grabbed my rain poncho, my FWPD windbreaker, and my heavier police-issue jacket, preparing myself for any eventuality.

Before heading off to work, I stopped by my apartment manager's office and knocked on the door. Dale Grigsby answered the door, his pimply paunch, as usual, not quite covered by the T-shirt he wore. He held half a cherry Pop-Tart in his hand. The entire other half seemed to be in his mouth. “What?” he said, revealing a mouth full of half-chewed cherry pastry paste.

I handed him an envelope. “I'm giving my notice. I'm moving out at the end of the month.”

Frankie had already given me a set of keys for the house on Travis Avenue and I'd paid her prorated rent for the remainder of February. I planned to move my things into the house tomorrow.

Grigsby tossed the envelope onto a table next to the door. “You've got to give thirty days' notice,” he said, “You'll owe me for part of March, too. Read your lease.”

“So
now
you're a stickler for rules?” I spat. “Need I point out the numerous building code violations you've ignored?”

Grigsby frowned and took another bite of his Pop-Tart.

“Besides,” I added, “don't you have a waiting list for this place?”

Few apartments in town offered rent as cheap as Eastside Arms. The low rent was what led me, and every other tenant, to the place. It sure as hell wasn't the ambiance.

Grigsby chewed the bite and swallowed. “All right, all right. You always were a pain in the ass. No skin off my nose if you go.”

I blew him a kiss. “I'll miss you, too.”

Yeah, right. I'll miss him when hell freezes over.

At 8:00
A.M.
the day was already warm. The newscaster on the local NPR affiliate predicted near record-breaking high temperatures by the afternoon. You wouldn't get any complaints from me. The day before had been cold and wet and dreary. As short as Texas winters were, I was already in the mood for spring. With any luck, that Canadian cold front would stall out over Oklahoma.

Brigit and I picked up our car at the station and headed out on patrol, our first destination Owen Haynes's house. The driveway was still empty, the curtains drawn. Detective Jackson had informed me that she'd stopped by the house twice more during the week, but had no luck. Looked like Haynes and his girlfriend might have flown the coop permanently. But whether it was to flee arrest for Samuelson's murder was unclear. I checked with the neighbors again, but still nobody claimed to have seen anyone at the house.

As I waited at the stop sign at Carlock and Hemphill, an SUV came roaring up the road, nearly running up on the curb as the driver swerved around a smaller vehicle.

Not on my watch, buddy.

I switched on my flashing lights and turned right, going after the SUV. The smaller vehicle pulled over to let me pass, and I laid on the gas, moving up behind the still-speeding car. Rather than pull over, the driver put the pedal to the medal.
Moron.
If he thought his SUV could outrun my cruiser, he had poop for brains. Still, we officers had been cautioned against unnecessary high-speed chases, which posed a risk of injury to innocent bystanders. The general public had become aware that officers were less likely than they used to be to engage in hot pursuit. Looked like this ass was going to put that theory to the test.

I flipped on my siren now. The guy still made no move to pull over or brake.

I grabbed my mic and pushed the button to activate the radio. “Backup needed on Hemphill heading north from Allen. Got a speeder evading arrest.”

Probably realizing officers would be waiting for him up ahead, the driver hooked a right turn on Magnolia. Unfortunately for him, he hooked it much too fast, the back end of his vehicle swinging around like a square dancer. Tires squealed as he braked.
Screeeeee!

Dumbass.
Didn't he know to turn into a skid?

His SUV came to a stop in the middle of the road. He glanced around furtively, realizing that, though he'd somehow managed not to hit another car, he was now hopelessly boxed in by traffic.

I pushed the button to activate my patrol car's public address system. “Step out of the car with your hands up.”

The man banged his hands on the steering wheel before doing as told. He slid out of his truck, his meaty hands raised to his shoulders.

The guy was Caucasian, with a round body and an equally round, bald head. His lips were full and protruded more than usual. He looked look like a human rubber duck.

“On your knees,” I said through the mic, fighting the urge to add
quack-quack
.

He put one hand down to lower himself to the asphalt, then raised it again once he was kneeling.

Brigit stood in her enclosure, breathing down my neck, her tail wagging as I shifted the gear into park. I emerged from my car, standing behind the door until I could extend my baton.
Snap!

“Any more monkey business,” I called to the human duck, “and you will be sorry. Understand?”

His only response was a fat-lipped scowl.

I circled around behind him and pulled out my handcuffs. “Put your hands behind you.”

“Godammit!” he spat, though he did as he was told.

Once he was cuffed, I circled back around to his front. “Who do you think you are, driving like that? Jeff Gordon?”

“No!” he snapped. “I think I'm a stupid asshole!”

He'd get no argument from me.

His scowl disappeared, and his big lips began to bounce as he started blubbering. “I must be a stupid asshole if my wife and best friend think they can carry on right under my nose and I wouldn't figure it out.”

I groaned. “That's rough. Let me guess. You were on your way to set your friend straight?”

He could only nod now, engaged as he was in an all-out blubber bonanza, big tears rolling down his cheeks.

“I don't blame you for being upset,” I said, “but I do blame you for not pulling over. You should always do what a cop tells you.”

Another squad car pulled up, Summer at the wheel. When she emerged from the car, she stared at the guy for a moment, a puzzled look on her face. “You look familiar. Have I arrested you before?”

Still blubbering, the man shook his head.

I stepped over to my coworker and whispered, “Rubber duck.”

“Ah.” She nodded. “That's it.”

After explaining the situation to Summer, I let her take over. Because they had no backseat, K-9 cruisers could not be used to transport suspects. It was a nice benefit of being partnered with a dog. Didn't have to listen to the cursing and threats suspects often spewed from the backseat of a patrol car. Less paperwork, too.

As Summer led the man to her cruiser, she called over to me. “We're overdue for drinks.”

“I'm moving into a new place tomorrow,” I told her. “You'll have to come over and see it. I'll get a bottle of moscato. You can meet my new roommate. She has blue hair.”

“Blue hair?” Summer's nose crinkled. “Is she an old lady or a Smurf?”