“Again, I don’t work for Portland PD. I work for the people of, and the visitors to, this island. And, as far as I know, there’s no law or regulation saying as such—or as a private citizen—I can’t gather information or contact individuals I believe might be in jeopardy.”
Xavier just looked down his blade of a nose. “Let me make this clear. The FBI doesn’t need the dubious assistance of some obsessed LEO who’s playing big shot on some bumfuck island and spends his time out catching stray dogs.”
Reed glanced down at the dog now snoring at his feet. “It didn’t take that much time. I’ll say this, then we should both get back to work: I’m not looking to get in your way, and we both know I haven’t been in your way. You’re pissed because it’s now in the files that some obsessed LEO on some bumfuck island contacted Hobart’s next victim—or tried to. And you, Special Agent, with all the punch of the FBI behind you, didn’t.
“I’d be pissed, too, in your shoes. But Emily Devlon is still dead, and there are people I care about who fit Hobart’s victim pattern. So you’re wasting your time trying to scare or intimidate me.”
“What I’m doing is warning you. The Bureau has control of this investigation.”
“Warning me isn’t going to do dick-all, either. I hope you get her. I hope to Christ you take her down before she kills the next on her list. When you do? I’ll send you a case of the beverage of your choice. Until then, I’d say we both know where we stand on this.”
“You’ll cross a line.” Xavier got to his feet. “When you do, I’ll see to it you lose this cushy job you’ve got here, and any chance at a badge anywhere.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. You know, you haven’t asked how I determined Hobart was in Florida and would go for one of the two people I contacted. You don’t ask,” Reed continued, “because you’re pissed. I’m going to send you that information, and hope you’ll look into it when you’re not as pissed. It’s relevant because if you haven’t confirmed that Hobart’s responsible for Devlon as yet, you will. She’ll have left something because she wants credit for it.”
“Just keep out of my way.”
“We’re still off-season,” Reed said as Xavier went to the door. “So you’ve got a couple hours before the next ferry back to Portland. The coffee and pie are damn good at the Sunrise Café.”
Xavier strode out, leaving the door swinging open behind him.
Reed looked down at the snoring dog again. “That, my friend, was a man who managed to be a dick and a tight-ass simultaneously.”
He looked up again when Donna came to the door. “Your visitor didn’t look too happy when he left. Rude, too, slamming the door. We figured you were in trouble with the feds for something, but you don’t look worried.”
“I’m not, because I’m an obsessed LEO playing big shot on a bumfuck island. And that works out pretty well for me.”
“Big shot.” She snorted.
“Hey, I’m chief of police. That’s pretty big for any shot.”
“Did he really call the island ‘bumfuck’?”
“He did, but we’re not worried about that because we know better.”
“Did you cut that asshole down to size?”
“He didn’t leave happy, did he?”
She gave a sharp nod of approval. “Doc Dorsey said you can bring the dog in.”
Reed wondered if he should let sleeping dogs lie. But when he rolled back a couple of inches in his chair, the dog’s head shot up. His eyes stared into Reed’s with fear and longing.
“I guess I’ll do that then.”
He opted to walk, hoping the dog would stop shaking every time he saw someone who wasn’t his arresting officer. But every time he did, the dog leaned on Reed’s leg and trembled.
The vet had his office attached to his house, less than a quarter mile out of the village proper. He lived in the bright yellow house with his wife and their youngest son, now a high school senior.
Doc Dorsey—even his wife called him Doc—kept regular hours two days a week, with a third morning reserved for surgeries. He’d open otherwise for emergencies, even if he was out fishing or working with his three hives of bees.
When Reed walked in, the vet’s wife sat at the desk in the waiting area. A kind of animal parlor, Reed observed, with a scatter of mismatched chairs and tables on a floor of pale blue vinyl.
“Mrs. Dorsey, I appreciate you opening up for me.”
“Oh, that’s no problem.” She waved that away, a woman with a long brown ponytail pulled back from a pretty, fully made-up face. “So this is our stray. Poor lost baby.”
She hopped up. The dog cringed back and hunched behind Reed’s legs.
“People spook him.”
“You don’t.”
“Well, I gave him a hamburger and a ride in the cruiser.”
“He’s bonded with you.” She flicked a finger at Reed, then crouched down to dog level. “I bet he was hungry. He’s definitely underweight. That’s a sweet face he has. He needs a good wash. I think there’s some red under that brown, but he’s one dirty dog. Did you bring a stool sample?”
“Ah … We haven’t gotten to that end of things.”
“Well, we’ll need one. You take him around the back. Plenty of dogs have pooped and peed there. The scent could get him going. How long ago did he have that hamburger?”
“A good hour I guess.”
“Then you should have some luck. Take this.”
She pulled a doctor’s glove and a widemouthed plastic bottle out of a drawer. “I’ll let Doc know you’re here.”
Resigned, Reed went out, but before he could lead the dog around to the back, said dog squatted and did what dogs do right on the concrete walkway.
“Well, shit. Literally.”
Reed put on the glove, did what he had to do.
“That was quick,” Mrs. Dorsey said when he came back in.
“He went on the walkway before I realized … Sorry.” He handed her the sample, which he swore moved. “I got most of it.”
“Don’t worry, it’s not the first time. Take him on back. Straight back through the doorway, first left.” She handed the sample back. “You’re going to give this to Doc, but I can tell you that poor baby’s got intestinal worms.”
“Fun.”
He went back to the exam room with its counters, long, raised padded table, scales.
The dog trembled again when he saw Doc. The vet had a long brown ponytail like his wife, but gray streaked through his. He wore John Lennon glasses, a beatific smile, a Grateful Dead T-shirt, cargo jeans, and Doc Martens boots.
“Now, who’ve we got here?”
“He won’t give me his name, but I’ve got this.” Reed, happily, handed over the sample.
Doc said, “Um-hmm,” and, like his wife, crouched down. “Hasn’t been getting regular meals for a while by the looks of it. Scared of people, is he?”
“Shakes a lot. I felt scars on the back of his neck.”
That beautiful smile vanished, and the eyes behind the glasses went hard. “We’ll have a look. He’s not full grown, I’d say. See if you can get him to stand on the scale.”
It took a little convincing, but if Reed knelt down beside him, the dog stood still and trembled.
Doc noted the weight, told Reed to lift him up on the table.
“You stand in front of him, so he can see you. And you talk to him. Just keep your voice calm.”
“Nobody’s going to hurt you, but we’ve got to have a look.” He kept looking at the dog, talking in that same quiet voice, while Doc gently ran hands over him.
“People reported a stray just yesterday. He chased Ida Booker’s cat up a tree, yesterday and again this morning. Dug in her garden, ran off when he saw her. I found him chasing birds on the beach down that way. Lured him in with a burger. I had to sit for a while first.”
As he spoke in the calm, easy voice he’d use for an assault victim, he kept his eyes on the dog’s eyes. “He liked riding in the car. Kept his head out the whole time. He seems okay with me, but he spooks around anybody else. So far. If you move too fast or raise up your arm, he jerks down.”
“Classic signs of abuse.”
“I know it. It’s pretty much the same in people.”
“These scars? They’re probably from a choke collar. Yanking and yanking on it until the metal cut him.”
“Motherfucker. Sorry.”
“No sorry. It takes a motherfucker to do that to an animal. I need a look at his teeth, his ears, and so on.”