Dog Gone (16 page)

“I understand. Don't worry. Sheriff Hawks will catch the dogs in that pack.”

This almost makes me gag, but I manage to get out a last apology before I hang up. And as I do, my hand hits a note taped to the body of the telephone where Lyon, Mom, and I have always left notes for each other. Lyon even bought special self-sticking note squares to save Mom and me the trouble of dealing with tape.

Lyon,
G.D.'s wobbly handwriting reads.
We got to talk about Dead End. Wake me when you get in. Pop

Cub steps closer, reads the note. “That's it. We're dead.”

I rip the note from the telephone, stuff it into my pocket, then pull a pencil and paper from a drawer.
G.D.,
I write.
Dead End is back. Everything will be great. I have to go to the stable, but I'll be back soon. PLEASE don't tell Lyon about Dead End before we talk! Love, Dill

Cub eyes the note. “Have to go to the stable?”

“Yeah … uh…” I clear my throat. “I kind of left Miss Velvet tied up in the aisle in front of her stall yesterday.”

“Dill!” Cub grabs his hair, yanks. “That goes against the biggest stable rule ever!”

“No kidding.” I hurry to G.D.'s bedroom and slide my note under the door. “I've got to check on Dead End quick, then get back to the stable to figure out what happened—who found that horse and put her away, and who knows about this.”

“If Jerry Smoothers saw that horse tied up with no one around, we'll be in two tons of trouble,” Cub groans. “Aw, Dill, I don't want to lose my stable job. I love bein' around those animals and…” He hesitates. “Wait a second.” A grin spreads across his face. “It's Skeeter's horse.
He's
the one who'll get his butt kicked. His mother will blow a vocal cord yellin' at him!”

“Yeah, and that'll make him spitting mad. He'll get back at us by ratting on us about Dead End.” I throw myself out the back door and head for the barn. “We'd better hope with everything we've got that someone other than Skeeter or Jerry Smoothers put that horse away.”

*   *   *

The midafternoon Virginia summer heat sends sweat skidding down the back of my neck as Cub and I jog up the stable driveway. “Remind me never to leave my bike here again or…” My skin begins prickling—and not from the heat—when I see Mr. Fred Barley's dented and muddy pickup truck parked smack next to Sheriff Hawk's patrol car.

Cub turns to me, wide-eyed. Wiping at his sweaty forehead, he streaks road dust across his skin. “What'll we do now?”

Cub barely gets this out when Skeeter comes busting out of the back of the stable, barreling toward us like a locomotive. The veins in his neck are bulging, his eyes are popping-out angry.

“Someone's got his underwear in a wad,” Cub mutters.

“All you want to do is make me look bad!” Skeeter waves his silver-handled crop like he's going to beat us with it. “I just got in trouble because
someone
left my horse tied up in the aisle yesterday.” The Mosquito jabs the crop tip into my shoulder. “You left her out on purpose!”

“Don't be an idiot. I did not.” I sigh. “Listen, I'm sorry. I'll tell Ms. Hunter that I…”

“Too late.” Skeeter's knuckles turn white on the crop. “I just did. Two minutes ago. I told her that
you
left Miss Velvet out because
you
were working for me to keep me from telling everyone about your sheep-killing dog.”

My hands go for his throat. Skeeter jumps back, waving his stupid crop, begging for me to take it from him and bash it over his fat head. “You can forget about your riding lesson today, Dill. You'll never ride Ms. Hunter's horses again!” He scrambles backwards. “No more horse shows, nothing for you. Serves you right!” He laughs as he runs back into the barn.

“You'd better run!” Cub yells after him.

“Ms. Hunter!” Skeeter's shriek echoes through the barn.

“And he wonders why he has no friends.” Cub scowls. “I hope Stubs finds him.”

And I wonder how everything could have gone so wrong so fast. If I'd told Lyon the truth about Dead End, would Cub and I be in this mess right now?

“What now?” Cub blinks at me, his eyes giving away his fear.

“I've got to get Dead End out of town quick. I've got to get him to that shelter G.D. talked about.” I grab Cub's arm, and pull him back toward our bikes.

*   *   *

Back at home, my heart is still hammering at about ninety miles an hour as I drop a can of cold soda onto the kitchen table, in front of Cub. Then I go to Dead End, and slide off the twine collar and leash that Cub put on him to bring him inside from the barn. The minute he's free, the silly pooch shakes from nose to tail.

I go down to my knees and wrap my arms around him until I can feel his heart beating. I lay my cheek against the fur of his, not caring what he's been into or how bad he has smelled, but instead, wondering how I'll ever face things head-on.

That's when the door to the garage whips open. “Dill?” Lyon's voice booms, screaming trouble. The door slams behind him.

Cub chokes on his next soda sip. I hold my breath. Dead End turns, his tail making huge circles as he trots across the kitchen to greet Lyon, who stomps toward us with his hands clenched into big fists. Something about the way his dark eyebrows crinkle together gives his anger a frightening sharpness that I've only seen a couple times. The toothpick in his mouth should be in splinters. He pats our dog's head once, quickly, then brushes past him, coming at us.

“You're home real early,” I say, cautious. “I haven't even started dinner yet. And G.D. is napping.”

Lyon's eyes narrow on me. “Ms. Hunter called me about something she heard.”

Cub drops his head into his hands.

“Tell me you haven't been keeping one of those sheep-killing dogs.”

“He's not a…”

“DYLAN MACGREGOR!” Lyon takes in a deep breath, drags a flattened hand over his face, from his forehead south, to his chin. “Answer the question: Have you been keeping a dog?”

My mouth dries up.

Cub lifts his face, sits up straight. “It's Dead End, Sir.”

Lyon jerks as if Cub has slapped him. “What?
Dead End?
”

“He's a good dog,” I whine, my voice trickling out thin and desperate. On cue, the pooch comes to my side and nuzzles his scraped nose into my palm.

Lyon turns away from me, and then rakes a hand through his hair. “Good dog? People have lost valuable animals. Neighbors are fighting and demanding that each other's dogs be put to sleep. Farmers are buying guns, traps, and poison!”

“There's no proof that Dead End went after any farm animals. He's never even looked sidelong at a sheep,” I blurt out. “You know that. G.D. knows it, too.”

Lyon's anger deflates like a popped balloon. “G.D.” Staring at his feet, Lyon sighs. “Dill, I can't deal with Dead End right now. We need to talk about G.D. I was getting ready to come home when Ms. Hunter called me.”

Why does his tone drop? Suddenly, I want his anger back—anything but his terrible sadness.

He turns back to me. Sucking in a long breath, he lifts his face. He's only looked this worn out, beaten down, once before—when he told me of how he'd taken Mom to the hospital in the middle of the night. “Doc Kerring thinks the hospital is the best place for G.D.” Lyon sighs, his toothpick drooping. “I've come home to take him there.”

“NO!” My tone flares up like a freshly lit match, but inside I'm shaking. The tears are coming.

“I'm sorry, Dill, but G.D. agreed to go this time.” Lyon's voice is cold and flat. Mom once told me not to ever let this chilly distance fool me. She said Lyon gets closed off and winter-like when he's trying hard not to feel.

He turns away from me, and moves down the short hall, toward G.D.'s room. “Lyon! Don't!”

Cub's mouth drops open. He starts pacing, pulling at his hair. And I'm suddenly hating that he has to see all this.

Lyon pushes G.D.'s bedroom door open. The hinges creak. “Pop?” Lyon's voice gets gentle, the way I know it best. “You ready?”

G.D.'s thin mumble drifts into the kitchen, but I can't make out his words. Feet shuffle, slow. G.D.'s rings jingle as he hobbles into the kitchen, leaning on Lyon as well as that Civil War cane.

“G.D.?” My lips tremble. My eyes begin to burn. But I don't want to cry, not in front of Cub. Not in front of anybody.

G.D. holds up a bony hand in a stop signal. “Got to go this time, girl.”

“But Dead End's back,” I mutter as I stroke the dog's head. I blink quickly, using every bit of strength I have to keep from exploding into tears that might never stop.

Smiling large, his tail wagging, the pooch trots over to G.D., who drops one fragile hand to the yellow head. “Take care of him for me,” G.D. says, his voice unsteady, a trickle. “Got to face this head-on.”

“Come on, Pop.” Lyon tugs at G.D.

His hand moves in slow motion from Dead End to the faded baseball cap that I've seen a million times during all his visits over the years. A hat that he'd picked up at some championship game in Chicago. He pulls at its visor, as if this can hide his moist and red-rimmed eyes.

Then Lyon guides G.D. across the rest of the kitchen and the family room. Dead End returns to me, stays close. At the garage door, Lyon hesitates and looks back before leaving, his eyes full of a pain I've seen only once before. “I'm sorry, Dill. We'll talk about Dead End when I get home.”

After Lyon turns away from me, I go to the doorway. Slow as tar, Lyon and G.D. move to Lyon's pickup truck. There, Lyon lifts G.D. into the passenger side as if he is nothing more than a bundle of sticks. In a blink, he's Mom sitting there, frail as a sparrow. Like G.D., she'd been unable to fight against being carted off to the cold, metallic county hospital with all its needles and poisonous drugs.

My last chance to run at the truck and scream at Lyon to stop sits right in front of me, but I can't move. Unlike Mom, G.D. looks peaceful with his back against the seat, his face to the sun, his eyes closed.

CHAPTER 13

ROOM 524

Cub kicks at my bedroom doorway, but doesn't move one toe past it into my room. He never does. “I told my mom about your granddad goin' to the hospital. She sent over a casserole for your dinner. Chicken and green beans, I think. It's on the counter. I told her you still hadn't touched the lasagna she sent over after your mom…” He catches himself, and rams his toe into the doorjamb. “Anyway, I told her you already had plenty of food in your freezer, but she still wanted me to bring over that dish.”

“Tell her
thanks,
again.”

Cub hesitates, and sucks in a big breath. “My dad says you should come talk to him. I think he's right, Dill.”

“Tell the minister
thanks anyway
.”

Cub kicks harder at the doorway. “I, uh, didn't see Lyon's truck in the driveway.”

“He hasn't come home from the hospital.” My insides go quivery. I turn away from Cub, and glide Mom's opened bottle of gardenia perfume under my nose to bring her back for a moment.

“Dill, you got to admit that G.D. hasn't been looking good. Maybe the doctors will help this time.”

I glance at the more than twenty postcards I've spread over my bedroom floor, notes sent by G.D. from all the different places he'd visited during his years of zigzagging over the country.

Cub clears his throat. “Not everyone dies when they go to the hospital. My mom has been there lots.”

“Pushing out babies is different.” I inhale gardenia again, almost dumping what remains of the perfume when the telephone rings suddenly.

Cub hops back, out of my way, as I jump up from the floor (after securing the top on the perfume bottle) and bolt through the doorway, heading for the kitchen. “Hello?”

“Dill, it's your dad.”

Lyon hasn't called himself
dad
since the morning he told me that Mom was gone.

“I'm still at the hospital.” His voice is steady, unreadable.

No matter how hard I imagine stuffing the anger with Lyon's name on it inside the jar deep inside me and sealing the lid tight, the fury still seeps out and foams up.

“I'm coming to get you.” He doesn't leave an inch for argument. “You need to be here.”

The receiver clatters onto the kitchen floor. I grab the twine leash and collar from the counter, and slip it over Dead End's head. He jumps up from his bed, sensing my urgency. He doesn't even have time to sneeze as I run for the back door, abandoning Cub and his mother's casserole.

A second before I launch myself and the dog out of the house, I hear Cub scramble for the phone. “Hello? Mr. MacGregor? It's me, Sir. Cub.”

*   *   *

Twenty minutes might have passed before the barn door creaks open and late afternoon sunlight fills the place. Blinking, I pause from trying to knot and tie fresh bailing twine into a makeshift collar and leash. I squint at Cub's dark, scrawny form. Beside me, Dead End pants and smiles, thumping his tail.

“Knew you'd be out here with him.” Cub pulls the barn door closed. And then he crinkles his forehead at the mess in my hands. “What are you trying to do there?”

“Make a stronger collar and leash for this dog.”

When Cub takes the twine from me, I return to stroking Dead End's head. “He knows something's wrong,” I say. “He hasn't been sniffing for food, hasn't even checked my pockets for cookies.” My voice wavers. Another fat tear plops onto the yellow fur.

Cub shifts from foot to foot, working his magic on the string. “That dog sure has turned everything upside down around here.”

“Lyon turned everything upside down.”
By taking Mom to the hospital,
I don't add.