Each time I peeked at the clip, I segued from basking in quiet pride for having been at the puppy mill rescue to reliving the joy of holding those little beagles to recalling what it felt like to watch puppies being liberated from the storm drain . . . to restoking my outrage at the puppy mill owners, whom I’d heard confirmed in newscasts as Patsy and Bradley Shaheen.
Their pictures showed up often on the news. I was surprised they looked vaguely familiar, though I hadn’t gotten close enough to see them well at the puppy mill. They did, indeed, live upstairs from the ghastly holding cells. Their apartment must somehow have been noise proofed—and smell proofed.
Their hearts had to be compassion proof.
I also thought a lot about Efram Kiley. Our failure with him. He clearly hadn’t learned not to abuse animals. But I didn’t blame myself. I’d known what sort of lowlife he was originally. Was he capable of rehabilitation?
Apparently not.
I finally had enough of admiring myself on YouTube, at least for the moment. Although I did look pretty good there, for an aging broad. Not that anyone but family would be watching me. All eyes would be on that sweet puppy in my arms.
I took a quick peek at a Web site of the unofficial network of pet rescue administrators that I belong to, Southern California Rescuers. On a discussion group linked to it, we all share news of upcoming events, animals that need quick rescue—especially if we can’t get there fast enough or haven’t the room to bring them in—and other information that we thought our counterparts might find interesting.
I wasn’t enamored of the methods used by some of the other shelters in the network to care for or rehome their wards, but I kept my opinions to myself, in the interest of sharing useful information. So far, none who’d joined seemed to be abusing any of their residents, or my stance could change.
Nothing of interest there. No one had mentioned the puppy mill rescue, nor should they. No private shelter was officially involved.
I clicked back to my computer desktop and pushed away, observing the stack of files I needed to review. They sat on the right side of my antique-style wooden desk. I’d found the ornate, L-shaped desk used around the time I’d helped Dante to open HotRescues. He’d been willing to buy me a new one or a real antique. But I hadn’t thought either necessary. I had engaged my multitalented, strong hands to refinish this one and liked it a lot. It was large, with ringlike, drooping drawer handles that looked like aged pewter.
The desk occupied one side of my fairly large office—which had been designed and mostly furnished by Dante, not me, as the administrator’s hangout. The other side was basically a conversation area that I used for private meetings. It contained a really attractive sofa with brown, leathery upholstery, beige pillows, and curved wood legs. A little pretentious, but I liked it. I appreciated even more the wooden bookshelf that also had a role as a file cabinet. And I especially liked the window view of part of the shelter area, although right now the shades were drawn.
The files on my desk were labeled with names of our most recent adoptees. HotRescues was savvy enough to keep computerized track of all residents, but being medium tech instead of high, I also kept paper files for information not scanned or typed directly onto the computer. We maintained as many details as we could on each animal, including everything placed on the data sheet posted near their enclosures and more. The files I stored in my office were devoted to our residents waiting for someone to take them home—paperwork I kept readily available to make copies for potential adopters.
Right now, I had to go through folders on animals we’d placed recently. I’d soon organize their files in a storage room, but I always liked to chuck out unnecessary papers first. We always maintained some things, though, like special notes from volunteers who took pets for walks or played with them. And data about their spaying or neutering, since no animal left here unfixed, if they weren’t already, unless they were too young—and in those cases, we insisted that they be brought back so we could make sure it was done. That way, they’d never have offspring who could become similarly homeless.
We also kept data on who turned noses up at a meal, or expressed rage by attacking another dog, or had any other behavior or health issue. And . . . well, I actually didn’t recycle much.
I hadn’t a lot of time to sort through files now anyway. A pet owner was supposed to come in to talk to us about relinquishing her dog. Maybe. It was the same woman who’d called a few days ago. She hadn’t kept an appointment yet.
Which might be a good sign. Perhaps she wouldn’t abandon her dog here after all.
I glanced at the clock—a modern digital gadget that didn’t go with my desk’s antique look. It was nine thirty A.M. The woman had said she would show up at ten o’clock. I decided to take the opportunity to walk through the shelter area again.
“Be back in a few,” I told Nina as I passed through the entry. She was once again staffing the welcome area. The volunteer who had promised to sit there this morning had phoned in sick.
“Say hi to everyone for me,” she called.
Outside, dogs started barking the minute I appeared, as always—even though I discouraged it. I began to stroll down the path with habitats on both sides. At each enclosure, I stopped to say hi to its resident, smiling and putting my hand through for a pet as long as that pup wasn’t barking. “How are you, Elmer?” I crooned to the Lab. “You’re looking adorable today, Honey,” I told the Westie mix.
I passed the middle building, on my right, which housed our toy dogs, most rescued cats, and other smaller animals.
As I reached the turn toward the next row of kennels, I saw Si Rogan and Angie Shayde come through the back entrance, near the end of the storage building. “Hi,” I greeted them both.
“Hi, back, Internet star.” Si grinned as I rolled my eyes.
“That’s so three days ago,” I countered.
Si was an animal behaviorist who helped to retrain our most energetic or belligerent residents to make them easier to adopt. Around my age, and cute in an aging boyish kind of way, he was a nice guy who’d worked here part-time since we’d opened HotRescues. I’d gleaned by his attentiveness now and then that he wanted to get to know me better, but I’d gently discouraged him.
“But it’s still so adorable.” Angie was also smiling. A new veterinary technician who had only recently started working here, she had a classic oval face that looked almost cherubic, and short, curly hair. I was certain that she put all the animals she treated at ease with her warm attitude, too.
“Would have been cuter if the circumstances had been different,” I reminded her.
Her expression clouded. “That’s for sure.”
They both headed for the center building as I continued my stroll. I glanced at my watch. Time to return to my office to see if the woman who’d talked about leaving her dog here showed up around when she’d said she would.
I soon sat at my desk again and made myself begin plowing through files but kept checking the clock. When 10:10 showed, I heard a noise in the outer area. Looked like, this time, she had decided to keep her appointment. I sighed for her dog and turned my expression into a smile of dispirited compassion before rising to join them.
“What are you doing here?” I heard Nina’s voice raised from beyond my half-closed door.
“I’m back again to help out.” Or at least that’s what I thought I heard. The voice was muffled, yet unpleasantly familiar. No more ghost of a smile on my face, only anger. I burst out of my office.
Efram Kiley stood there, leaning over the reception counter with a grin that appeared menacing in its innocence. He wore jeans and a HotRescues T-shirt that looked similar to my outfit that day—not prison garb. But he’d just been arrested three days ago. What was he doing out of jail?
What was he doing
here
?
He turned to look at me. Something unsettling passed across his face—rage? Hatred?
Or maybe nothing at all. It could have been my imagination, since it wasn’t there when he aimed his unwelcome grin at me. “Hi, Lauren. I hope we can get past that misunderstanding the other day. Honestly, I was at that puppy mill to help.”
“Help the puppy mill owners?” I goaded. “I didn’t have any sense that you were helping the dogs.”
His eyes turned sorrowful and pained, as if I’d unexpectedly grown cat claws and drawn them across his face. Real emotion? I doubted it. Especially not after the way he had grabbed me during the rescue. Attacked me, until Matt Kingston took him into custody.
“Like I said, it was a misunderstanding. But now I have to prove it in court. They arrested me.” He sounded genuinely baffled, but I knew how skilled an actor the guy was. “I’m out on bail. Had to hire another lawyer, can you believe it?”
“Yes, I can. And I think you’d better go talk to your lawyer. Or at least get out of here. You’re not welcome any longer.” I moved closer, intending to force him to back off. I didn’t want him here. His presence reminded me of those poor, suffering puppies and dogs in those horrible, cramped conditions. Not to mention the pups rescued from the storm drain.
When he didn’t move, I glanced at Nina, who sat behind the desk, pale and clearly upset. “Please go call 911,” I told her.
“But I don’t want to leave you . . .” She glanced at Efram.
I didn’t especially crave being alone with him, either, but I wanted her away from this volatile man. “Go,” I insisted. Nina darted past us into my office.
I was concerned, sure, but at least Efram and I faced off in a relatively public place. The woman wanting to leave her dog was due any minute. Volunteers and employees of HotRescues always signed in here, in the main reception area. I had nothing to worry about. Besides, he abused vulnerable animals that were smaller than him and couldn’t fight back. His grabbing me before didn’t really mean he’d hurt people.
I hoped.
As we stood there, Dr. Mona Harvey walked in. Short, professionally clad in a shirtwaist, she was our esteemed staff psychologist and part-time adoption counselor. “Hi, Lauren. Efram.” She glanced at the latter shrewdly and inquisitively but didn’t ask why he was there. Instead, she signed the sheet on the desk and continued through, obviously reluctant to interrupt.
I nearly asked her to stay, but what good would that do? Besides, the cops would be here soon, if Nina had called as I’d requested. And I was sure she had.
Efram didn’t leave, but the steam of his anger appeared to be cooling. “Lauren, can we talk?” His voice held no menace now. He actually looked exhausted, and worried. Was this change of attitude for real?
I didn’t believe it. “No,” I said. “Please leave.”
Instead, he turned and planted himself on a chair at the side of the elongated table for visitors, where people interested in pet adoption were interviewed and filled out forms. It was located under the window that opened to the street. “Please, Lauren. Sit down.”
I ignored his request, sharpening the intensity of my glare.
He leaned forward and clasped his large hands between his knees. “I want things the way they were before. I was learning how to really take care of pets, you know that. I love animals. I wouldn’t do anything to hurt them, especially now.”
“I’m not the judge of that,” I responded evenly. I could act a role, too, if I needed to. And right now, displaying any of the anger that seethed inside me wouldn’t boot him out of here. “I’m not the one who arrested you. But I did see you there at that puppy mill. And someone threw those poor little beagles down the storm drain.”
“Not me!” he shot back, half standing. I tried to keep my expression indifferent, but he scared me.
I could admit that to myself, but no way would I admit it to him.
Matt Kingston wasn’t here to pull Efram away if he attacked. Neither was anyone else. Even if Mona had stayed, I doubted she’d be able to do more than attempt, in her shrink’s way—most likely unsuccessfully—to get this obviously upset man to chill out.
“Maybe not.” I kept my voice neutral as I glanced at my watch. “I’m expecting someone any moment who’s supposed to bring in a dog. Really, Efram, leave. Now.”
His face became a mask of annoyance that he bit back as fast as a Jack Russell terrier chases a ball. “Soon,” he said. “Right now, I want to visit the animals.” He rose suddenly and darted past me.
By the time I caught up, he’d opened the gate into our shelter area. Albert, a gray miniature poodle mix in the first enclosure on the right, saw us and started barking, which turned the entire locale into a cacophony of dogginess. Despite how I usually discouraged that kind of noise, I wanted to thank Albert for starting the ruckus this time. Instead, I said to Efram, “You’ve seen the animals. Now, get out of here, Efram.”
Auspiciously, Pete Engersol came out of our center building just then with a leash in his hands. An energetic senior citizen, he was one of the all-around assistants who cleaned enclosures, fed animals, and did whatever not-too-physical labor was required. “Hi, Lauren and Efram,” he called over the remaining barks. I waved, glad to see someone else around but wishing it was some big, burly, younger guy acting as my Superman. Or anyone with handcuffs and authority to arrest Efram for trespassing.
Too bad Matt Kingston wasn’t around. I’d have to invite him for a visit here one day soon.
As Pete headed for the rear of the shelter area, Efram stood there without answering me, his arms crossed, clearly intending to hang out here longer no matter what I said.
“Can I walk a few of the dogs today?” he asked. “Like I said, I want things to go back to normal.”
“That’s impossible.” Keeping my voice calm was becoming more of an effort. “You’re not welcome even to be here, let alone to get any closer to the animals. Get out, Efram.” This was getting damned repetitious, for all the good it did. I felt ineffectual, like a Chihuahua yapping at a hungry coyote, and I hated the feeling. Even worse, my fear, rational or not, was elevating as if I was one of those small dogs facing a skulking predator.