That Dog Won't Hunt (6 page)

“You’ll clean that up, buddy boy. The help’s all gone. What a waste of good liquor. It’s better bred than you are.”

She said something else that made her laugh. Blah, blah, blah, Rick. My ears were roaring like a jet on takeoff. I think I grabbed her arm, and we both shoved. Then she slapped me and that ring cut my temple. She staggered back, screamed and came at me, butting into my chest. I gave her a pop to the jaw.

Next thing I knew Gladys was lying with her head at a funny angle by the fireplace. That shiny gold rock. No blood. At first I thought maybe she wasn’t hurt bad. Just knocked out. The heat from the fire was burning my face. But the rest of me was stone cold. Then I noticed that her eyes were open. Those ugly blue cesspools seeing through to nothing. I checked. No pulse. Even if I knew
CPR
, I wasn’t about to bring the old bitch back. Shit, I wasn’t even sorry. She’d worked me like a slave.

I grabbed a bottle of rye and sat back down on the sofa. The booze went down like water. My thoughts lined up like those grouse in a tree. One, two, three. Shoot.

The alcohol worked its magic, and my breathing finally slowed. I thought about the situation. It started not to look so bad. Gladys had paid everyone off. She was expected to head south at this time. The lodge would soon close like it did every year.

It was so quiet that I could hear my heart beat. The big grandfather clock in the corner struck. I jumped like a frightened cat.

Time was on my side if I didn’t panic. I bundled Gladys up in a sheet and put her in the laundry room. Funny that I hadn’t seen Bucky. He seemed to be losing it these days. Standing around, staring at nothing. I left a pan of old rice on the porch. Then I turned in.

I hadn’t been asleep long when a nightmare startled me awake. I was running down Smoky Mountain Road outside of Escalante. Gladys was chasing me with the Mach 1. Its grill was opened like a cottonmouth, ready to swallow me. I could feel its hot breath.

It was some time before I drifted off again. Next thing I knew, the sun was coming through the window. I half expected Gladys to be calling me for breakfast. Downstairs all was quiet. I went out for a smoke. Still no sign of Bucky. A pile of ants ran around the untouched rice.

My appetite wasn’t much. I gulped down two cups of coffee strong enough to remove shingles. Then I took Gladys to the shed. I roped her onto the back of our biggest quad and set off.

“You’re gonna see someplace where the hand of man has never set foot.” That made me laugh. Count on me never to lose my sense of humor.

It took an hour to get back to the deepest part of the forest around Kinsol Mountain. Then I set off on foot. Neat and clean. No tracks. With the ground hard, the going was easier than usual. Snow was predicted for tomorrow night.

Gladys weighed about a hundred pounds. More than the cub. My muscles were shrieking as it got steeper. Fir, spruce, pesky alder raked at me. Nothing but a moose would come here, or something with jaws and claws. There was that cleft, the baby bear’s tomb. No sign of it down in those dark shadows.

“You should have played fair with me, Gladdie.”

Off she went. That hand mocked me, sticking out with the ring. I tossed down some rocks and moss until it was covered.

That night as I finished the last of the rye, I thought about the plan. She’d been telling everyone that she was leaving for the Southwest as usual. Then I stopped and hit myself upside the head. One problem, fool. Why’s the Mustang still in the shed? No wonder I had dreamed about it. Pay attention! It’s only been one day. You have time.

Gladys had a forever home. Now the car needed one. Consulting the topos, I found the deepest lake in the vicinity. A meteor crater, some said. Over six hundred feet in the middle. An old logging road ran nearby along a steep cliff. The Mustang had low clearance, but if I pushed her, she’d make it. That car had guts to spare.

I left at night just in case anyone might be on the highway. The little 50cc motorbike was in the trunk. At the site, I slept in the car. When dawn came, I stood at the side of the road looking down about sixty feet. I picked up a large rock and pitched it.
Splash!
Into that blue water until you couldn’t see it anymore.
Rebel Without a
Cause
, that’s me. Except that I had a good one. Too bad about the car. She was prime. I hauled the little motorcycle out of the trunk.

“Goodbye, old friend,” I said as I fired up the Mustang. I aimed her for the lip of the canyon. It wasn’t in the cards for us to stay together. I had the door open and my left foot ready to hit the ground. I gunned her and pitched out plenty early, rolling in the gravel. I skinned my elbow pretty good and tore the sleeve of my jacket. I’d have a damn good bruise on my hip, but nothing was broken. My luck was holding.

I almost cried when that cherry-red beauty disappeared under the water. With the windows wide-open, it went down real fast. Bubbles came up. Then all was still. An owl called. “I kno-o-o-ow. I kno-o-o-ow.” Revving up the cycle, I rode the hydro-pole line back to where it crossed one corner of our property.

Just as I got back, it started to snow big time. That would put a nice blanket on everything, including the car tracks at the lake. Not that anyone ever went there.

I slept ten hours and got up feeling like a new man.

Then, on his next delivery, I told the postman about Gladys leaving for a few months as usual. Gave him the fee to hold her mail at the post office for six months.

I bided my sweet time, following every part of my plan. Shelley stayed with me one night at the lodge. She brought a pan of frozen cabbage rolls and a loaf of Wonder bread. With her looks, she didn’t need to cook.

“Wow! Real French wine,” she said when I hauled out the last bottle. It didn’t cost but seven dollars.

“Nothing but the best for you, hon.”

“Super nice,” Shelley said. We were nestling in one of the corner bedrooms. It would have been a bit nervy to take the master. “This is all, like, so perfect, Rick. With what I’ve saved and your job this summer, we’ll get that place you told me about. Soon as I get packed in a few days, we can leave. My Toyota’s ten years old, but it’s in good shape.”

From outside the window we could hear the wind shrieking as a front moved in. A major thaw was on the way, weatherman said.

“I can’t wait to get away from all this snow.”

“There’s just enough in Utah to make the desert pretty,” I said. “A little stardust.” I covered her shoulder with butterfly kisses.

“How long will it take to get there?” she asked.

“We’ll take our time and see the sights,” I said. “Have some fun at the casinos in Michigan.”

“And Vegas too?”

“Guaranteed.” My finger tapped the tip of her tiny nose. “Five or six times a year.”

“Tell me about your ranch, Rick,” she asked.

“
Our
ranch. I’ll put up a real fancy sign. The R Circle S.” I drew her a brand in the air. The radio was playing “Something Happened on the Way to Heaven.” I couldn’t help but smile.

“What’s so funny?” She licked her bottom lip like she wanted to understand the joke.

“Nothing, babe.” I could drown in those emerald eyes. Little flecks of gold I never noticed. “Let’s take a bubble bath.”

“You’re so romantic.” We got out of bed. Then she stepped on the Mr. Chile dog toy. It squeaked. “So what happened to Bucky? Did Mrs. Ryan take him?”

For once I didn’t feel like lying.

“That’s the funny thing. He wandered off just before she left. She’d arranged for Harvey to take care of him anyway. Figured he was getting too old for the heat down south.”

“Yeah, he’s pretty old. I guess he’s had a good life.”

“Gladys has a soft heart. If he can walk and still enjoys his food, his ticket won’t be punched. But suffering, that’s another story. She left Harvey the name of her vet in case.”

“My mom said that dogs are our best friends.”

“You got it.”

Flea factory. And let’s not forget the shit I stepped in when he took a dump too close to the house. And that had gotten more and more often. Lazy bastard.

I biffed Mr. Chile into the toybox.

CHAPTER TEN

T
ime to go. Gladys, check. Car, check. Money, check. Shelley was picking me up at noon.

The money was all in those nice American hundreds plus some traveling Canadian cash. Fast as a bug, we’d disappear into red-rock country. As for Gladys, when she didn’t return in the spring, what the hell could anyone do? People went missing all the time in the US. Even in Canada. Even with their cars. And there was no way anyone was heading anywhere near Kinsol Mountain. Not until 2190 when they built a Walmart.

That morning the thaw arrived. Ten degrees above freezing was sending the early snow packing. The eaves were dripping with icicles. I was having a last coffee on the porch, enjoying the warm wind, when Harvey came along. I’d forgotten to tell him about Bucky’s wanderings. Luck was being a lady to me.

He rolled up the drive in his Jeep, skewing in the slush.

“Crazy weather, or what?” he said, taking off a tweedy wool hat as he got out. “Not that I’m complaining.”

“Come on up to the porch. Coffee’s hot.”

Giving me a friendly grin, he took a rocker. I brought out the coffee and gave him the mug. He cradled it in his hands and sipped.

“Haven’t seen a thaw this early since 1975. It’s pneumonia weather,” he said.

“Damn straight. I think I’m getting a cold.” I cleared my throat for effect.

“How’s Gladys doing?” he asked. “She get there yet?”

My heart thumped a beat.

“She called the other day. Her arthritis is a lot better down in Southern California.”

“That’s what she always says. Too bad she can’t live there. No health care though. So what are your plans?” he asked, looking around. “See you got the shutters locked and the place all secured.”

“I’m going today when my…ride comes. But I might be back in the spring.” Leaving a door open was a good idea to take the heat off me. “She said to tell you to keep the drive free.” I reached for my wallet and peeled off two hundred dollars.

With a grin, he pocketed the money.

“Hey, I ain’t seen old Buck come around in a while,” he said, sipping the coffee. Harvey kept steak bones for him.

I raised an eyebrow.

“I’m worried too. Seems he went off…a few days ago. I was thinking a coyote or wolf got him. Easy pickings. I’ve seen their tracks in the snow. Keep an eye out. Gladys will settle up for his care. And you know the vet she uses.” Only one in town.

Harvey nodded, and I was congratulating myself on the story. Had I covered all the bases or what? Ten days tops, and Nufflo would be nuzzling one cheek and Shelley the other.

“Poor schnook,” he said, rubbing his knee. “He was a heck of a dog when he was young though. George hunted him from the time he was a pup.”

I folded my arms and chuckled.

“Come on, now. That dog won’t hunt.”

“You didn’t know him when. Nose like a bloodhound. What a birder. George never went out but he came back loaded. Ducks in the fall, grouse and partridge all winter.”

Both our mugs were empty. I should offer a refill, but I wanted him on his way. Instead of joining into the conversation, I just ummed a bit.

“Hey, isn’t that Buck?” Harvey asked as a honey-colored form appeared from back of the shed. “Holy jumpin’. Didn’t I tell you? What’s that in his mouth? Get you a bunny, Mr. Buck?”

We both stood as the dog limped slowly forward. Its fur was matted and tufted. One ear was half torn off. Blood streamed from his nose.

“He’s in a bad way. Come, boy.” Harvey got up and extended a hand.

At the bottom of the porch, Bucky stopped and dropped the five-fingered burden.

“That’s no rabbit,” Harvey said as he turned to me, his eyes narrowing.

That cigar-band ring was lucky one last time.

LOU ALLIN
is the author of the Belle Palmer Mystery series set in Northern Ontario. Now living on Vancouver Island with her border collies and mini-poodle, she is working on a new series where the rainforest meets the sea.
That Dog Won’t
Hunt
is her first title in the new Rapid Reads series from Orca’s Raven Books imprint.

RAPID READS

The following is an excerpt from
another exciting Rapid Reads novel,
The Way It Works
by William Kowalski.