After her shift, Rachel sped to Ellis. Animal control was in a giant garage, built on the outskirts of Ellis, so the constant, deafening barking wouldn’t bother anyone.
Rachel passed the wing full of cats, but continued down the corridor and entered the cement room that housed the kennels. She was immediately overwhelmed by the chaos of dogs hurling themselves at kennel doors, scrabbling up to greet her, barking madly.
She saw the brown dog immediately. He stared back at her, eyed her like he knew he was on death row.
Rachel went to the front desk and brought the attendant back. The attendant was young and nice, and appeared competent. She was the antithesis of Gene Runkle.
“What is that?”
“We think it’s a dachshund mix of some kind.” The dog was brown, transitioned into a dark red along the back, grew darker still until the hindquarters were completely black. Fangs stuck out from beneath his upper lip, vaguely vampire-like, but the springing tail and white paws suggested anything but evil.
“It looks like a gremlin.”
“He’s a sweetheart,” said the attendant.
“He bit my mother.”
“Oh,” said the attendant, absorbing this information.
“Can I take him on a walk?”
“Of course,” the attendant said, and returned with a leash.
“How long have you had him?”
“A week or so,” she said, and unlocked the kennel. The dog stepped out calmly and stretched out on his front legs, yawned. “We call him Frank.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“No, ma’am. The dogcatcher in Quinn insisted on it. Thought it was hilarious.”
Frank bent obediently as Rachel attached the collar and leash. She walked Frank out behind the animal control building. He didn’t pull on the leash, just moseyed along, stopping to smell things, lifting a leg on others.
Rachel followed him back into the office, and announced to the attendant her intent to take him home. This pleased the woman, and she slid the paperwork on a clipboard across the counter. Rachel filled out the necessary information, Frank sitting right beside her, as if he knew. He scratched his ear with one hind leg.
“Rachel Flood?” The attendant looked down at the clipboard.
“Yes.”
“I’ve heard about you.” Oh, fuck, thought Rachel. Her past was everywhere. Frank would never be allowed to go home with a slut or a murderess.
“Oh,” said Rachel.
“My friend Diane Connor? She thinks the world of you.”
“Pleasure,” Rachel said, and shook her hand.
Frank and Rachel left together, and the attendant waved at them until they pulled away.
Frank sat calmly on the front seat as she drove to the pet store. Again, he bent down and accepted the leash without a peep. A half hour later, they returned to her truck with dog food, a leash, a dog bed, a bowl for food and a bowl for water. She also bought a chew toy shaped like a softball, and Frank immediately began gnawing on it.
He watched out the window as they drove back to Quinn, tail wagging when she reached over to pet him. She looked over once, and she could have sworn that he was smiling at her.
She parked in front of her mother’s house, and went around to the passenger side, and clipped Frank on his leash.
They walked up to the front porch, and Rachel rang the bell.
This was the first time Rachel had ever been to her mother’s house. To most daughters, this would be a strange thing. To Rachel, it just felt like another thing to brave. She steeled herself and waited for her mother to appear.
Laverna answered the door, and regarded them both. For once, she didn’t seem suspicious.
“Hi,” said Rachel.
Laverna crouched down and rubbed the dog’s head. “I recognize him.”
“His name is Frank,” said Rachel.
“Seriously?”
“Yes,” said Rachel. “I got him for you.”
Rachel handed Laverna the leash and returned to the truck, expecting her mother to yell after her. Nothing came. Rachel collected the food, the bed, and the bowls, and brought them to the front door.
She stood there, her arms full. Laverna was already stroking Frank’s head.
“Come in,” Laverna said, and Rachel entered without a word, Frank sniffing Laverna’s pants. Laverna unleashed him, and he began nosing around the living room. Rachel examined her mother’s home, at her taste in decorations. Laverna walls were nearly full of woodprints of sunsets, carefully carved heads of Native Americans and the cowboys who hunted them, ancient snowshoes and spurs mounted on a grayed chunk of cedar. Jake would be horrified. Rachel knew these had all been gifts from Laverna’s customers.
Laverna led them out to the back deck. Frank lay down in front of Laverna and snuggled into her feet. She scratched his back, and he stood and stretched, and then began to sniff around. He seemed wary of the river.
“I’ve never had a dog,” said Laverna.
“I know,” said Rachel.