The Dead Season (4 page)

I nodded. “There’s a huge difference between a family pet, even a well-behaved one, and a working dog team. In fact, I’m not sure I’d be entirely comfortable even taking a CGC certified dog on a wilderness expedition like the one you’re describing.”

A slight quirk of his eyebrow suggested I might have overstepped my bounds—particularly for someone who was about to ask for a job—but keeping my opinions to myself had never been one of my strong points. He was polite enough to inquire, “Oh?”

“For one thing,” I explained, “CGC testing does not include off-leash reliability, and there are times in woods when it simply isn’t practical to keep your dog leashed. My own dog, Cisco, is a canine good citizen and a certified therapy dog, but it took him over a year to get his Level One wilderness SAR certification.”

He looked interested now. “You’re certified for wilderness search and rescue?”

“I am,” I clarified, “but Cisco is only certified for trail searches. It’s a fairly complicated system, and the SAR organization I belong to has pretty high standards, but that’s my point. Therapy dogs are mostly evaluated for their temperament and reliability in urban situations. A trail dog should have a little more specialized training, and so should the handler.” I could see by the thoughtful look in his eye that I had made a point, so I seized my opportunity. “So, I was wondering,” I plunged on, “whether you’d be interested in setting up a regular training program for your counselors and dogs. I could design it around your needs and hold the classes here if you like. As long as we have an on-going arrangement, I’m sure I could keep my prices very reasonable, and—”

There was a soft knock on the door and a woman pushed it open. “Paul,” she said, barely glancing at me, “sorry to interrupt, but I thought you’d want to know Darien just got back from the doctor. It’s definitely flu and there’s no way she’s going to be ready to go out day after tomorrow.”

“Damn it,” he muttered, scowling at her, “I thought these kids were supposed to have their flu shots.”

She shrugged. “The doctor said sometimes they don’t work.”

I glanced at her, trying not to look in the least annoyed by the fact that she had interrupted just as I was winding up to my big pitch, but I might as well have been another piece of furniture. She was a plain and impossibly thin woman in her mid-forties with long, lank brown hair, weary eyes and no makeup. She wore a sweatshirt with the green rising sun of the New Day Wilderness
Program
logo on it, and jeans that bagged on her small frame. She stood only a few feet inside the room with her hand still on the door, as though uncertain whether to stay or go after she delivered her message.

It was at that moment that Paul seemed to remember his manners and drew himself from his frowning reverie. “I’m sorry,” he said with a forced smile. “Raine Stockton, this is my wife Rachel. Rachel, Raine is a dog trainer who might be interested in working with us.”

Rachel spared me a quick glance, apparently decided I wasn’t worth worrying about, and turned back to Paul. “What do you want to do about the expedition? If we’re going to cancel, we should do it now.”

He returned sharply, “We’re not going to cancel.”

“But what am I supposed to—“

“I said it’s under control, Rachel.” This time his voice could have cut steel and I saw a dull magenta flush creep up the sallow cheeks of his spouse. Then, in a slightly milder tone he added, “I’ll take care of it.”

She looked at him for a moment, and if repressed emotions could ignite static air, we all would have gone up in flames. Then she nodded, turned sharply, and closed the door behind her with a definitive
snick
.

Paul Evans looked at me for half a beat when she was gone, and then said abruptly. “Miss Stockton, I’ll be frank. Your coming here today was fortuitous. If you would consider joining our staff as a field specialist on a trial basis for the next week, I feel certain we could work something out regarding the training program you mentioned.”

I blinked. “But—I’m not looking for a job. I have a job. Two of them, in fact. I work part time for the forest service and—“

“Forest service, really?” Again there was that spark of interest in his eyes. “Perfect. I couldn’t ask for better qualifications. What I’d need for you to do is come along on our next wilderness expedition—with your therapy dog, of course—and give a few lectures on wilderness survival, maybe demo some SAR techniques… You’re certified in CPR and First Aid, I assume?”

I stared at him. “Well, yes, but…”

“We leave in two days and return in ten.” He slid open his desk drawer and pulled out some papers. “I’ll need you to fill out some personal information and a health record on yourself and your dog. Here’s an equipment list. We provide the meals and there’s a lodge halfway up where you can have a hot shower, but for the most part we expect the staff to provide an example to the young people by roughing it just like they do. For someone with your experience that shouldn’t be a problem, am I right?”

He was right. I had spent half my life backpacking through the Nantahala, with and without a dog. While some people might have found the prospect of sleeping in a tent in below-freezing temps, drinking hot Jell-O out of a tin cup for energy and peeing in a half-frozen stream in the middle of the night while the wind howled through the icy branches overhead a somewhat less than beguiling prospect, to me it sounded like just the kind of adventure I could sink my teeth into. My aunt and uncle had gone on a Christmas cruise, my best friend Sonny was spending the winter in a beach house on the coast, and even my business partner Maude had gone to Florida for the holidays. What had I done? Stayed at home with the dogs. Granted, a winter wilderness camping expedition was not exactly on par with sipping Mojitos in the Bahamas, but it was better than sitting around an empty office waiting for the phone to ring. For a moment I actually considered it.

But only for a moment.

I found a professional, if regretful, smile as I started to rise. “Mr. Evans, I appreciate the offer, and your confidence in me, but I’m really not looking for…”

“It pays two thousand dollars,” he said.

I sat back down again.

“What trail do you take?” I asked.

“Our expedition takes place completely on private property,” he said, “which we lease from Carolina Power and Electric. We hike four miles a day through moderate terrain for four days to the top of what I believe the locals call Angel Head Mountain.” He smiled. “I can’t tell you how it got that name. It doesn’t look anything like an angel’s head.”

I, of course, knew exactly why the mountain was called Angel Head. It was one of the highest peaks in the region, so high that if you reached the top you could wave to the angels—so they said. It had also been the place where more than one unfortunate hiker had met his own angel over the years, and I couldn’t imagine why anyone would think a winter hike to the peak of Angel Head would be fun.

Then I remembered that this particular hike was not supposed to be fun.

I said, “That’s a pretty big challenge for city kids.”

His expression was bland. “Challenging them is exactly what we’re here to do, Miss Stockton.”

I thought for a minute. “I really don’t have much experience with troubled teenagers.” Nor did I want to have any.

“Your role would be mostly supervisory. You wouldn’t be required to participate in the therapeutic program.”

Well, that was a relief, since I had no idea what the therapeutic program was.

“How many kids did you say you’d be taking out?”

“This session we’re taking five. And because the remaining students will be going home tomorrow, both Rachel and I will be free to lead the expedition, along with an intern counselor, which is a one-to-two ratio.” He added, “If you decide to join us, the ratio will be slightly higher.”

Still, the website had promised one-to-one. I was beginning to see the problem.

I glanced down at the paperwork he had pushed in front of me. “There’s no contract, right? This is just a one-time thing?”

“Absolutely. We frequently subcontract with specialists to enhance the New Day Wilderness
Program.
Although,” he added somewhat apologetically, and with a thoroughly endearing smile, “we usually like to give them a little more notice than this.”

“Tell me again what I would have to do.”

“For the most part, you would be on hand to supervise procedures and answer questions from the students. Every afternoon after group therapy, we introduce an educational topic, and you would be responsible for at least three of those. Whatever you’re comfortable with presenting would be fine, but I know our students would be interested in anything that has to do with dog training or search and rescue. Additionally, you and your dog would act in the role of a typical therapy dog team, as needed.”

Nothing about that scenario intimidated me. After all, I’d been teaching three-month-old puppies who didn’t even speak English how to perform socially acceptable behaviors for almost ten years now; I was perfectly comfortable delivering lectures on my favorite subject to almost grown-up teenagers. I said, with only a little hesitation, “And you said it pays…?”

“Two thousand dollars for the expedition,” he assured me. “Customarily, of course, our wilderness adventures last two weeks, but in the winter we’ve found it’s more practical to keep the actual field time down to ten days.”

“I can understand that,” I murmured. Then, “When do you need to know?”

He smiled. “Now would be best. But tomorrow morning would be acceptable.”

There was definitely nothing soft-sell about this fellow. I fingered the papers, unconsciously pulling them closer to me until I had folded them and slipped them into my purse. “I have to think about it,” I said.

He passed a card to me across the desk. “Call me on my cell when you decide,” he said. “Anytime tonight or in the morning. Meantime, how would you like a tour of the facility?”

He showed me a spotless dining hall, a recreation facility with an indoor pool and basketball court, boys’ and girls’ dorms with military-made beds and footlockers so precisely aligned that, if you looked at them from the doorway, they formed a single unbroken line from wall to wall. There was a counseling room and a meditation room, whose doors he didn’t open. We had just reached the entry lobby again, with its tall windows and dancing fire, when the front door buzzed open and a big black lab with one crooked ear and a white star on his chest bounded in. He was followed by a young woman in an anorak jacket with a leash in her hand, calling, “Max! Come back here!”

The dog ignored her and made a bee-line toward us. I did a quick pivot, showing the dog my back, and dug into my jeans’ pocket for a liver treat. What kind of dog trainer would I be if I couldn’t put my hands on a liver treat with one hundred percent accuracy whenever I needed one? As I expected, Max bounced off the backs of my knees and, when he was unable to get the attention wanted, immediately jumped on Paul Evans with all four paws.

The woman called, “Max, don’t!”

Paul shouted, “Get down!” and shoved the dog hard. Max, of course, thought this was a great game and bounded toward him again. This time I was ready to distract him before his paws hit the fabric, placing the treat in front of his nose and turning his head away from his target. This threw him off balance in mid-jump and he skidded into a sloppy sit. I popped the treat into his mouth with a “Good off!” just as his young owner came running up and snapped the leash to his collar.

“I’m so sorry,” she gasped. “I didn’t know anyone was here. Max, bad dog!”

I quickly slipped Max another treat before he started to believe he
was
a bad dog. “That’s a good sit, Max,” I said, but Paul Evans spoke over me.

“Heather, what are the rules about dogs on campus?”

The young woman flushed. “On leash at all times. I’m sorry, Mr. Evans.”

He was still brushing imaginary paw prints from his jeans, and I could feel the anger radiating from him. So I quickly extended my hand to Heather and said pleasantly, “Hi, I’m Raine Stockton. I think we spoke on the phone.”

She looked from me to her boss, trying unobtrusively to wrestle an excited Max into submission while shaking my hand. Her expression was hopeful. “Did you come to give Max his test? Will he be able to go with me this weekend?”

I privately thought the good-natured but excitable Max was at least three obedience courses away from passing his CGC test, much less a Therapy Dog evaluation, but I saw no reason to hurt her feelings. “I’m afraid not,” I told her.

“Miss Stockton will be joining our staff as a field specialist.” Paul recovered his composure and resumed his mild, authoritative manner. “She’ll be bringing her own search and rescue dog to demonstrate survival techniques and to show us how a real working dog is supposed to behave.”

I wasn’t nearly as confident in Cisco’s ability to demonstrate exemplary behavior as I was in his tracking skills, but I thought discretion might be the better part of valor on that topic, so I merely pulled out a business card from my pocket and handed it to a disappointed-looking Heather. Max immediately tried to eat it.

“I have a boarding kennel,” I told her, “and we’d be happy to take care of Max while you’re gone. You can bring him by anytime tomorrow. Just give me a call before you come for directions.”