Biting the Moon (39 page)

She did not remember.

He apologized, said he was sorry, but of course as it wasn't really
her
dog, she—they—had found it, hadn't they?

“Jules.” Mary felt herself tilt, and a tear dropped from the bowl and tracked down her cheek. “His name isn't ‘It.' Jules is his name.”

Dr. Krueger reddened and looked at her, not with sympathy but hostility. “Well, I'm sorry.”

She left him standing there, clearly not at all sorry, and went out to the waiting room, but seemed unable to make her feet carry her through it and out to the car. They felt so weighted she could barely lift them. So she stopped before the bulletin board and thought about Jules, how terrible it was to be saved and lost again—wasn't there a poem they'd read in class by Emily Dickinson, “
Just lost when I was saved
”—and how much she had wanted to take Jules home with her because he was really Andi's dog and, because of that, Andi might come to get him.

Mary had not really been seeing the pictures spread across the board, snapshots displaying cats and dogs in poses and antics—a Siamese leaping up to a mantel, a pert-looking sheepdog and her puppies—making the owners and animals into one big happy family. Then her eye traveled down to the lost dogs, the missing dogs, the sadder collection. She frowned; she could almost feel her thoughts race ahead of her ability to comprehend them.
He didn't think we'd come back because Jules wasn't our dog, we just rescued him, so we wouldn't bother to come back. That was why he was so vague, didn't have his answers rehearsed. Oh, God.

She turned and made her way outside, where she paced up and down by the rim of trees that edged the parking area. Her arms hugged her waist as she walked and thought. To the people getting into their own cars, pets in tow, she probably appeared to be in pain. She was: she knew what she wanted was not to know. Knowing—or at least suspecting—that Jules was not dead meant she must do something. She could hear Andi saying it; it sounded like a directive, however sympathetically she said it: Now you know.

What can I do? I'm not her, I don't have her way of walking off into the unknown.

And then she thought: maybe Andi felt the exact same way. But maybe she had in her an extra kick, something like shifting gears the way she did, grinding, clumsily jolting them back against their seats. And that kick pushed her through to the other side of the argument Mary was now having with herself.

I must do something.

(But you don't know what to do.)

I must do something.

(But you're probably wrong, anyway.)

I must do something.

(But you're only fourteen, for God's sakes!)

I must do something.

Reuel would have known what to do; he'd know who to question, what to say, when to go, how to proceed. Wanting someone to lean on and having no one, Mary leaned, frontwise, against the car door, elbows planted on the rim of the window, her face in her hands. She
was not crying but frowning a deep frown, directed at herself. She moved her head and looked up at the darkening sky as if this bolt of awareness had been sheared from the sky and leveled at her.

Help, she needed help. And then, as if that sheared-off lightning bolt had spiked a name, she thought she knew where to get it.

“Where's your friend?” asked Marie Follett, standing in front of the fireplace exactly as before, in her out-of-fashion two-piece blue dress, a cigarette between her fingers, a martini on the mantel. It was a pose she might have been holding since Mary and Andi left. And when she asked the question and brought the cigarette to her lips, it was as if a picture had moved.

“She had to leave,” was Mary's vague answer.

Marie Follett gave a wondering headshake. “Some girl.”

“I know. Thanks for letting me talk to you.” There had been no problem this time; Mary had just told the metal box on the pillar her name and mentioned the ASPCA. Whoever was speaking to her had gone to check with “Mrs. F.” It was a younger voice, and a much more pleasant one than the housekeeper's. “I'm glad you were home.”

“I'm always home.”

“Don't you get kind of—well, bored?”

“I'm always bored. Why do you think I do this?” She raised her glass, as if toasting boredom, and took a sip.

Mary was sitting on the champagne-colored sofa, her black hat beside her, drinking a Coke (ceremoniously brought in by Bridget, who also had been the voice in the box). “I was hoping you'd help me find Jules—I mean, you know, your dog.”

“You lost him? What happened? Did he run off?”

“We took him to this vet near here. Peaceable Kingdom. His name's Krueger.”

“Him,” said Marie Follett with distaste.

Mary told her about Jules, the alleged pneumonia.

Marie said, “I never knew that dog to be sick. Before Herr Goering decided to streamline him, that dog was always chasing around. A lot of energy.”

“He wasn't sick; he wasn't acting like a sick dog, only a hungry one. He wolfed down the stuff we gave him.”

Marie had drained her glass and moved to the table behind the sofa. She mixed herself another, twirling the top off the vodka bottle with a practiced hand, adding a whisper of vermouth and a shred of lemon peel. “So you're saying?”

“I'm saying Jules didn't die.”

“Then what—” Marie Follett was not dumb. She knew before the question was out of her mouth. “You're thinking, dogfights.”

Mary nodded. “There's sure
something
wrong, Mrs. Follett.” Mary couldn't keep a panicky edge out of her voice.

“Marie,” said Mrs. Follett, setting her drink on the table and coming around the sofa to sit beside Mary.

“Marie,” repeated Mary. It was the first time Mary had seen her sit down. She'd got the impression Marie Follett conducted all business standing up. She felt, suddenly, as if she might cry and felt herself straining after the inherent sympathy now in the older woman's face. Her eyes were a very pale blue, but not vacuous. Her voice tight, Mary said, “What I thought was, you might know something about them—the fights. I mean, since Mr. Follett . . . well . . .”

Marie didn't answer right away. She reached behind to the table for her cigarettes and lighter. What Mary thought was, she was making up
her mind. She got a cigarette going and said, “Look: those fights are something you don't want to know about, believe me.” She jabbed the cigarette toward her mouth. “I sure didn't want to know, so Buck entertained me with details.”

“Did you ever see one?”

“No. Yes. What I mean is, I drove over there with him, went inside, couldn't take it, left.”

“Do you know where they're held?”

“Kiddo, you don't want to get mixed up with these people.” She squinted, searching for words. “They're not really people. They're something else. They're the ones the body snatchers got to first.” She shook her head, said again, “No, you don't want to mess with them.”

It was the same thing Reuel had said about the Double Q. “I have to. I have to do something about Jules.”

“Why?”

“Because I know what can happen.” Mary leaned forward. “It's like you said: you didn't want to know. But now you know, like it or not.” Mary sat back, waiting for Marie Follett to finish making up her mind.

Marie finished smoking her cigarette, stubbed it out in a blue glass ashtray, and said, “I'll change my clothes.”

Mary leaned back and closed her eyes. She finally felt the mountainous weight of guilt and grief lifting. It was the
doing something
that raised it from her shoulders; she felt almost weightless.

The door slid open again and she turned to see the same girl (not much older than Mary) enter with a silver tray, which she set on the coffee table. She then removed the Coke and the plate of sandwiches from the tray. “Mrs. F said to make you some sandwiches.” She had the thickest Irish brogue Mary had ever heard. “There's cheese and pickle and a BLT without the B. Mrs. F said you probably wouldn't want that. I'm Bridget. I'm Irish.”

Bridget seemed to live in a litter of initials, thought Mary. It was like talking Scrabble. “Thanks. Thanks a lot.”

Bridget stood, hugging the silver tray to her.

Mary took a big bite of the cheese sandwich, pronounced it really good, and asked, “Where's that housekeeper I saw before?”

“Oh, she's gone to visit relatives. Isn't your friend with you?”

It had been Marie's question. “How did you see her? You weren't here, were you?”

Bridget nodded. “I was upstairs.” She looked at the ceiling, as if one could view the upstairs from where she stood. “Mrs. F really liked her; she said she was . . . awesome, that's what she said.”

Awesome.
Mary smiled.

Marie Follett reappeared wearing blue jeans, caramel-colored boots, and a Western-style denim shirt. The heavier layer of makeup was removed and her hair was down to her shoulders. Bereft of the unfashionable dress and the sculpted hairdo, Marie looked completely different. She checked her satchel-like bag, took the cigarettes from the table, and dropped them in. Then she inspected Mary. “You're what? Fifteen, around there?”

“Fourteen.”

Marie shook her head. “You can pass for more, easy. Do you ever wear makeup?”

Remembering the makeup session with Andi, she smiled and said, “Occasionally,” and felt pleased by what Marie had said.

“A little lipstick would help.” She took a gold tube from her purse, and a small mirror, and handed them to Mary, who applied a thin layer. “Now . . . you're wearing black, that always looks older. Black can disguise anything. And the hat.” She picked it up from the sofa and set it on Mary's head. She pulled the brim down so it partly hid Mary's face. “Terrific. Let's do it.”

•   •   •

She drove a Ford truck (if you could call these fancy four-wheel-drive things trucks). It was mud-spattered up to its windows, which helped to tone down its lush paint-and-chrome work. There were two cages in the rear, which Buck used to transport dogs (Marie told her).

For fifteen or twenty miles they drove over back roads, saying little. Finally, Mary asked, “Have we got a plan?”

“No.”

Mary smiled slightly. Act now, think later. It wasn't a comfortable way to live, but it was a brave one. She was used to risk by now.

Marie shifted to the four-wheel stickshift, going up a deeply rutted, slick, muddy hill, banked even now with hard-packed dirty snow.
There were some places that lived outside of normal latitudes, Mary guessed. “All I want is to get Jules back,” said Mary, wondering if Marie had some notion of shutting the place down and arresting everybody. Mary must be too used to Andi. “It hasn't been long enough for anything to have happened to him, do you think?”

“Probably not. He wouldn't be mean enough or hungry enough yet to put him in a fight.” She reached over and patted Mary's leg. “He's okay, I bet.” She inclined her head to a turning and an even muddier road. “It's down here.”

“My God, where
are
we?”

“Noplace.” Marie smiled, apparently liking that answer. She brought the truck to a stop in front of a post-and-rail fence.

The spread of land that reached to the horizon looked cold and desolate and, except for an old trailer in the distance, like nobody lived there now or ever had or would. An uninviting place, a place that cast things out. This winter-hard dirt road they were traveling stretched across it to nowhere.

But it was clearly somewhere, or there wouldn't have been a fence. Mary imagined anyone who would allow dogfights on his property would want them way out of sight.

Marie got out of the car and walked over to the gate. She lifted a chain with a heavy padlock, dropped it, walked back. “I didn't expect it'd be easy to get in.”

“But how do you?”

Marie's arm was braced against the driver-side door. She dipped her head to look through the rolled-down window. “Password. Do you believe it?”

“Password? Well, do you know it?”

Marie crossed her arms now, looked over the land. “I know what it used to be. They keep changing it. Look.” Her hand shaded her eyes as she looked off into the distance.

Mary got out of the car, shaded her own eyes with her hand. A figure, too far off for definition, was moving toward them. Presumably, it had exited from the old trailer. Dressed in black, all black, the figure seemed to waver behind bands of heat, even though the sun was no longer high in the sky but riding near the far-off mountains, and what
had been bone-white light was now tinged with a wheylike gray. Why was he out here in this sun-blanched land, Mary wondered, why stationed here as if the trailer were an outpost?

Finally, he got up to the fence, a hawk-faced man with flinty eyes. “Ma'am.” He touched the brim of his hat, both the word and the gesture stiff, as if he weren't used to them.

“You're Madge Silver's brother, I know you, how you been?” Marie grinned a false, bright smile, looked happy at uncovering this memory, and stuck out her hand for him to shake.

He shook it in a kind of downward yank, uncertain again. “Yeah, nice to see you again.”

Still grinning, Marie said, “Oh, come on now, you hardly remember me. I was only here once with my husband: Buck Follett.”

Mary thought he looked more at ease. There must have been a password in there somewhere, she thought. She watched him unlock the padlock, unwind the heavy chain, and swing the gate back.

Marie waved as they bumped through, and Mary (who had been careful to keep her hat brim down), asked, “What was the password?”

Marie shrugged. “
Silver
, or maybe
brother.
Who knows? Or maybe he just liked you. Dressed in black like him, you could be twins.”