“Hey girl,” I said.
She barked brightly and I put the truck in drive. I could smell the funky heat of her breath and her head was enormous right there beside me. Her face was flat beneath her straight-standing ears and her jaw was sharply angled until it disappeared into the snout. Her pupils were black and rimmed pale blue and there was a welcome in her eyes that just about tore me down.
We drove back for the highway, then through town. I stopped for gas and to get Wolfdog some food and it was full sunup by the time I parked across the street from Granger’s little house on Poplar Street.
He had a small square of a yard and a basketball hoop on the garage where the rim sat buried in snow. I could see him inside through the kitchen window, sitting at the table and picking through the paper. He was drinking coffee and looked up every so often to glance in the direction of the television—a big flat-screen I saw flickering through the living room curtains.
Wolfdog sat in the cab and twitched her ears. Then she shook out her fur and barked.
“All right,” I said. “I’m going.”
Granger came to the door in a Sheriff’s Department T-shirt and gray sweatpants and he flinched a little when he saw it was me. Maybe he was expecting the Mormons.
“Well, this is a surprise,” he said.
“I come in peace,” I said.
“Jesus Christ,” he said, and nodded at the truck. “Is that Portis’s beast out there in the cab?”
“Her name’s Wolfdog.”
“The truth be known,” he said. “She’s always looked more wolf than dog to me.”
“It varies,” I said.
“Well,” he said. “How about a cup of coffee then?”
Granger’s wheels started turning right away. I asked if he knew anything about the baby they’d been talking about on the news and he shot me a look—his brow all narrow and staggered while he leaned against the kitchen counter. Then I saw the light come on, watched it bloom into a little half smile as he shook his head. He came to the table with the coffeepot, poured me a cup, and topped off his own.
“What brought about this interest?” he said.
“Just a concerned citizen,” I said.
“Very concerned,” he said. “It would seem.”
He returned the coffee and then settled into his chair. He aimed the remote, shut the television off, and pushed his newspaper aside. He started packing a tin of chew.
“It’s just that I’d be curious to know how she was,” I said.
“Is that right?”
“I guess what I’m wondering,” I said. “Is what happened to her afterward. You know, after she was left?”
He nodded, then scooped out a dip and tucked it in his lower lip.
“What I’m wondering,” he said, and jabbed down the dip with his tongue. “Is if whoever brought that baby in might also know something about what happened in the hills with all them dead bodies?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “If you ever find them, you should ask.”
“Nobody’s looking,” he said. “That’s the thing. Michigan’s got a safe haven law—means if you have a baby in harm’s way, you can bring them in, drop them off, and not answer a goddamn question about anything. Legally you have every right to turn around and walk away. Case closed. They passed that law to try and keep babies out of Dumpsters.”
“It sounds like a good law then,” I said.
He shrugged.
“I don’t know if it is or it isn’t,” he said. “It’s just the law.”
“That safe haven thing probably doesn’t apply to dead bodies, though, does it?”
“No,” he said. “It does not.”
Granger leaned down and picked up an empty bottle of Faygo cola he must have had sitting on the floor by his chair. He spat and then set the bottle back down by his feet. Polite.
“So this baby,” I said.
“Right,” he said. “Because you were sort of wondering, as a concerned citizen.”
“Yes,” I said. “Exactly.”
“It’s pretty simple really,” he said. “The hospital called us after the drop-off and treated the baby. Then we called the judge. Judge shut off the Michigan State game, called an emergency hearing, and came down to the courthouse. Standard operating procedure. Judge ruled the baby be placed in temporary foster care until the adjudication and turned it over to Family Services.”
“Adjudication?”
“It’s basically like a trial. They just call it something different.”
“When’s that?”
“Has to happen within sixty days.”
“What about the mother?”
“Kayla Hawthorne? They found her wandering around the north hills when the storm cleared. She was high as hell and hysterical. Woke up to find her baby gone and took off to find her on foot. She was clutching a butcher knife for some fucking reason.”