Lost Dog (A Gideon and Sirius Novel Book 3) (4 page)

“Isaiah had the cactus part right and the cloud part right, but he didn’t tell me about what came between them. In order to beat the heat, you need to start before dawn. No water fountains along the way, so you better be hauling lots of liquids. In fact, you better start hydrating the day before the hike, like I’ll be doing all of tomorrow. And I’m not sure whether it’s harder to deal with the heat or the cold. When you start off in the heat of the valley, it’s hard to imagine that you’ll be fighting ice by the afternoon. You might even need crampons to keep your footing.”

“All of that sounds pretty awful,” I said.

“And it feels pretty awful. I’m no spring chicken. And I’m carrying at least twenty-five, hell, thirty-five more pounds than I should be.”

“But you’ve still done it for the last three years?”

“I’ve made an anniversary of it. At the 187 Club we like to stress the importance of setting aside time for special remembrances of the dead. Isaiah and I make that walk together every year on the anniversary of his death. It’s my way of spending time with my son and putting a positive spin on a terrible day. Crazy, right?”

“Not so crazy,” I said. “I assume you take the tram back down?”

“You’re damn right I do. I’m only half-crazy. The worst thing about that ride is that it only takes about ten minutes to go from Mountain Station to Base Station. It goes too fast.”

“My wife and I took that tram years ago,” I said. “We swore the next time we did it, we’d dine at that restaurant they’ve got up at the top.”

“Peaks Restaurant,” said Walker. “It’s supposed to be pretty good, but everyone goes there for the view more than the food. Every year Isaiah and I have a long drink there before I take the tram back down. You can’t imagine the view. You feel like you’re on top of the world. I suppose I remember that more than all the aches and pains that come with the hike.”

“Memory is a crazy woman that hoards colored rags and throws away food.”

Walker wrinkled his brow. “Say what?”

“My shaman next-door neighbor is fond of quoting that.”

“One more time,” said Walker.

“The shaman part or the quote?”

“The quote.”

“Memory is a crazy woman that hoards colored rags and throws away food.” Then I remembered the name of the writer. Seth was fond of several of his sayings: “Austin O’Malley.”

“I like that. Instead of remembering the real substance, we’re more likely to remember the pretty trappings.”

“It certainly puts a perspective on what we choose to remember and what we don’t.”

“And you say your neighbor is a shaman?”

“He is.”

“Only in L.A.,” said Walker.

I qualified my head-nodding with an explanation: “I actually have a lot of respect for Seth. That’s his name. He doesn’t go by Soaring Cloud or Deep Waters or anything like that. Seth is one of those people who seem to know just about everything. When Jenny died, he helped guide me through some very difficult times. He did it because I’m a friend, but it’s also one of the things he does professionally.”

“And he’s really an honest-to-goodness shaman?”

“I don’t know if you need a license to practice being a shaman in California, but that’s his job.”

“So he’s like a medicine man?”

“I’ve heard him describe his work as ‘spirit healing.’”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“He offers healing tools to those who are sick in spirit. Seth is often a featured speaker in grief workshops.”

“If that’s the case, why don’t you ask him if he’d like to be next month’s speaker?”

“I’ll do that,” I promised.

“I like to get a mix of speakers. Most of the club members are still actively grieving, and they need to hear from someone other than a detective from Robbery-Homicide.”

I nodded. “There was a time when I wanted nothing more than working RHD, but working Special Cases meant I could keep Sirius as my partner.”

“It took me a lot of years in the field before I finally got to Robbery-Homicide,” said Walker. “I’m not sure it was the best match for me. You know that Peter Principle thing about rising to the level of your incompetence? Now I’m not saying I was a bad detective. And I know no one outworked me. But some detectives seem to have this sixth sense. They intuit what’s happened. I was always more plodding. I would work the evidence like a dog chewing his bone. I’d work it every which way, but the problem is sometimes you don’t have the luxury of time to do that. You get assigned another case, and then another. When I look back at my years in Robbery-Homicide, it’s the unsolved cases that gnaw at me.”

“All of us have cases we haven’t made.”

“There’s a difference between haven’t made and should have made.”

“You don’t sound very retired to me.”

“There’s a
ghost
that’s been haunting me,” he said. “I’m working to put it to bed.”

His affable expression hardened, as did his tone. The cold case was clearly important to him. Before I had a chance to ask him about it, Leticia approached our table, and his scowl turned to a smile.

“I heard your sweet tooth calling,” she said, and we never did get back around to the ghost.

CHAPTER 3

A LONG WAY FROM HOME

Despite Walker’s threat about splitting the check, he must have slipped Leticia his credit card when I wasn’t looking, thwarting any chance for me to pay.

“Let’s not be strangers,” he said, and then he bent down and scratched Sirius’s ear and told him, “Give my best to Little Red Riding Hood.”

Walker stayed behind to give his regards to several of the staff while Sirius and I made our way out to the car. Because Sirius hadn’t gotten enough in the way of handouts, I pulled out a dog protein bar from the food stock I keep for him. According to the ingredients on the label, his protein bar contained beef, bison, peas, flaxseed, carrots, broccoli, and blueberries.

“Good, huh?” I asked.

Sirius gave a few weak wags of his tail and began eating his bar, although it was clear he was a lot less interested in it than he had been in the pecan praline sweet potato pie Leticia had dropped off for dessert. I really couldn’t blame him.

Our Sherman Oaks home is about a twenty-mile drive from the restaurant, but in its own way it could have been another world. I was going from a black and urban neighborhood to one that was white and suburban. As ethnically diverse as L.A. is by the numbers, neighborhoods still tend to divide along racial and ethnic lines. Within L.A.’s borders are Koreatown, Chinatown, Little Tokyo, Little Salvador, Little Osaka, and Little Armenia. The Fairfax District is sometimes called Little Israel. Much of Westwood has a large Persian population and is referred to as Tehrangeles.

Before we began our drive home, I lined up the musical selections. Peter Gabriel and Biko would lead off, followed by Joan Baez’s dulcet tones singing about a terrible bombing in “Birmingham Sunday.” Bob Marley’s “War” seemed like a good choice, as did Neil Young’s “Southern Man.” My personal concert would conclude with the gospel singing of Odetta and “Motherless Child.” Her version was a favorite of mine, although I had three or four covers of it.

The musical selections combined to give off the feeling of a long, thoughtful aperitif. Odetta started singing just as we entered the borders of Sherman Oaks. Even though I like to pretend that being abandoned as a baby doesn’t play on my psyche, because I was adopted there’s a part of me that feels like a motherless child. Of course when the song was written more than a century ago, it spoke to slave children being sold and taken away from their parents. Modern listeners take away their own notions of being a long way from home. Some of us measure it by the absence of a mother’s arms; others look at it as separation from a place; many think about a bygone time. The universal pull and pall is an absence and a yearning.

“Such a long, long way from home,” I sang.

Sirius nudged me. I think it was more a case of my sounding sad than my butchering a song, or at least that’s what I wanted to believe. My partner doesn’t like it when I sing the blues, even when I do a passable job.

“You’re right,” I said. “Home is where the dog is.”

After we parked in our driveway, I took Sirius for a long walk. Dogs have a nose for news, because they have 220 million olfactory receptors, compared to humans’ five million. With a good sniff, Sirius knew who and what had passed by that day.

There are dogs trained to detect medical conditions, bedbugs, termites, explosives, and drugs. Rescue dogs find the living under piles of snow; cadaver dogs locate the dead.

No wonder we humans put our nose to the grindstone. It’s not good for much else.

“I’m still waiting for you to find me a truffle,” I said.

Sirius wagged his tail and did a little more sniffing. No truffle was forthcoming.

It was a pleasant night. The temperature was in the low sixties, and there wasn’t any wind. Sirius was transfixed by a scent he’d picked up. I didn’t hurry him along even though I was ready to hit the sack.

If I was lucky, I would sleep without interruption. My fire dreams are more infrequent now, although they still occur more than I like. I hope one day they’ll disappear altogether, but that’s wishful thinking, which I know is no way to overcome my PTSD. I’ve known too many guys like me. We behave like the Black Knight in
Monty Python and the Holy Grail.
We lose an arm and insist, “It’s only a scratch.” We’re bleeding out and proclaim, “It’s just a flesh wound.”

“It’s just a dream,” I tell Lisbet and Seth.

Of course when I tell that to Sirius, he knows what a liar I am.

CHAPTER 4

A SHAGGY DOG STORY

In police work you’re never between cases. There’s always overdue paperwork to catch up with, witnesses to interview, and depositions that need to be scheduled. All detectives have unsolved cases. There are crime scenes that need to be recanvassed and subpoenas that need to be served.

With all that said, though, there are periods of feast and famine, times when there aren’t enough hours in the day, and times when you can catch your breath and even smell the roses. I was in one of those not-so-pressing periods. While I had plenty of work to catch up on, at the moment it didn’t feel as if I was being squeezed by a vise. That was a good thing, because it was April 14, and like most red-blooded procrastinating Americans, I hadn’t turned in my taxes. Still, I was rather proud of myself; there have been years when I haven’t gotten around to doing my taxes until April 15.

“You’d think I could write off all the Frisbees and balls you’ve chewed up,” I told Sirius, “not to mention your flea medication.”

Maybe because I wasn’t overly preoccupied, I found myself thinking about the talk I’d given the night before to the 187 Club and my evening with Langston Walker. The night had been much less difficult than I’d expected. Walker had put me at ease, and for the most part the club members had been respectful, especially given their circumstances. Only those who’ve experienced the homicide of a loved one can understand its engulfing anguish. Often it’s a pain that keeps on giving.

Later in the week I’d call up Walker and thank him for dinner. I knew that today he was hydrating and preparing for his hike, and that tomorrow he’d be on the trail before the sun was up. He’d travel from the cacti to the clouds, walking with the memory of his son Isaiah.

“Death and taxes,” I told Sirius, “death and taxes.”

We made it to the post office before it closed. As a reward, I went to bed at ten thirty. Sirius settled on the carpet right next to the bed. When I have my fire dreams, Sirius is always there to wake me up.

“I suppose you didn’t brush your teeth or say your prayers,” I said.

The pot was calling the kettle black, but that wasn’t something I mentioned.

“How about I offer up a short poem to the universe?”

I cleared my throat and quoted from Anna Hempstead Branch: “If there is no God for thee, then there is no God for me.”

It was easy to remember Branch’s poem because of its brevity. Elizabeth Barrett Browning wrote a poem for her dog Flush that goes on for about a hundred lines. That’s why I don’t remember any of it. Of course I’m not convinced Browning’s Sonnet 43 wasn’t written for Flush as well.

How do I love thee? Let me count the filets.

Sleep came on quickly and thoroughly. That’s why it was so difficult emerging from my deep slumber. I awakened to Sirius’s insistent pawing and whimpering. Usually that’s how he awakens me from my fire nightmare, but since I wasn’t sweating, hyperventilating, or going up in flames, it was clear something else was causing his alarm.

“What is it?” I asked.

Sirius offered a single, excited bark. I knew it wasn’t the call of nature; he has a dog door that leads out to the porch.

My partner nudged me, insisting I get up. “Okay, okay,” I said.

He ran to the bedroom door and then back to me. It was his way of telling me to get a move on.

“Yes, boss,” I said, looking for my slippers and the one old robe I own.

While dressing I heard the nearby yipping of coyotes. “It better not be those coyotes that have you riled up,” I said.

Hearing coyotes in our neighborhood wasn’t uncommon, and I knew of several cat owners along the block who’d lost their pets to the predators. One neighbor with a home-surveillance system said he regularly recorded a pack of coyotes using our street as a throughway. We weren’t far from an urban canyon, the pack’s likely home.

Sirius had never been bothered by the coyote yips and howls before. This time, though, something was different.

“Has Timmy fallen down the well again, Lassie?” I asked.

Sirius barked at me, not hiding his impatience. It was clear he wanted me moving at warp speed. I didn’t stop to get a leash, confident that Sirius would stay at my side as he always does, but as soon as I opened the door, he voiced a sound new to me, a growl that carried as if it had been snarled out of a bullhorn. It was an announcement and a call of the wild.

Then he raced off. Usually he runs silently. Not this time. He was announcing himself like an oncoming locomotive.

His roar caused a stir among the coyotes. Their alarmed cries filled the air. I did some calling of my own.

“Sirius! Sirius!”

I ran in the direction where I’d seen my partner race off. Sirius is much bigger than a coyote, but it sounded as if he was ready to take on the whole pack. I cursed myself for not having brought a bat, and stopped long enough to grab a few cobblestones out of the dry creek that runs through Seth’s front yard.

The stones proved unnecessary. Judging by the retreating yips, the coyote pack was in full retreat.

“Sirius!” I called again.

Fifteen seconds passed and I shouted his name once more. This time he reappeared. His posture was a combination of triumph—“Look! I dispatched the enemy!”—and guilt. Sirius knew he’d run off without my leave.

“Hier!”
I commanded.

His posture lowered near to the ground, his skulking body language asking my forgiveness.

“Was ist los?”

The German translation is: What is going on? Sirius knew what I was really saying was, “What the hell were you up to?”

He pressed himself against my side, and his eyes went from the ground up to mine and then back to the ground. He whined, a short little note. Imagine a child trying to say there’s a good reason he shouldn’t be punished for violating some rule. It was almost as if Sirius was saying, “There’s a very good explanation for what I did.”

“Sitz,”
I said, and he immediately sat.

His obedience didn’t come without offering up a plaintive note, though. His head kept moving, this time looking from me off into the distance. Something was out there, he was telling me. His body was tensed. He didn’t want to stay put; the only reason he was at my side and doing what I was asking of him was to make me happy.

“Okay,” I said.
“Voraus!”

I gave him leave to “go out.” He sprinted away, but before he was out of sight, he stopped to turn around and bark at me. I was being told to follow. Then Sirius continued running down the road. Before I lost sight of him, he stopped long enough to turn around and bark at me once more. It didn’t take a dog whisperer to understand he was telling me, “Hurry up, Jack.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I said.

Slippers aren’t very good for jogging, but I made do. By that time Sirius had turned the corner and come to a stop. In the darkness I could just make out a shadowed form that Sirius was hovering over. As I drew closer, I could see movement. A dog was struggling to rise to its feet. Quivering limbs spoke to its will, but the effort was too much and the dog collapsed in a heap.

As I approached, the dog offered up a deep growl. Sirius responded by gently licking one of the dog’s wounds. If I was being anthropomorphic, I would have said he was telling the dog, “There, there.”

I heeded the growl and stayed my distance. The dog was medium-size, a mixed breed with spotting on the chest, and looked to be mostly hound. I was pretty sure the dog was female based on how Sirius was treating her. Generally he gets along better with females.

There wasn’t enough light for me to see very well, but it was clear the dog was hurt. I wondered if the coyotes had gotten to her. She was panting, and her coat was dirty.

“It’s okay,” I said, speaking in my most calming voice.

The dog growled, but this time without as much throat. Sirius redoubled his licking, vouching for me.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” I said, and moved a little closer.

Maybe the dog believed me. Maybe Sirius had sold me as one of the good ones. She watched me closely, but stopped growling. I noticed she turned her head to follow my movements. The reason for that could be seen in the milky patch of her left eye, an indication she was probably blind in that one. Sirius seemed to know that already. He’d positioned himself on the side of her bad eye.

“How are you, girl?” I asked.

Even in the dim light I could see she wasn’t doing well. The pads of her feet were worn and bloody, and she continued to pant. Everything was telling me the dog was dehydrated.

“Sirius, stay,” I said.

The command was probably unnecessary. It looked like he wasn’t about to leave his companion.

I turned around and began jogging home. The neighborhood was quiet, and there was no traffic. As I ran, I considered my options. No one was on duty at animal control; personnel wouldn’t come on until the morning. That meant it was up to me until then. I thought about covering the dog with a blanket and making sure she had plenty of fluids. But what if the coyotes returned? I couldn’t leave an injured animal to that fate. That meant I had to find a way to bring the dog home with us. Luckily I had some specialized equipment that might help me transport her without getting bitten.

Once home, I raced around and gathered everything. Instead of taking the time to put on a full bite suit, I just put on an arm sleeve. Then I grabbed a gallon of water, a bowl, a blanket, a glove, and some dog treats. Everything got tossed into a garden cart, which I pulled along behind me. I was halfway down the front pathway when I heard a familiar voice in the darkness.

“Are you running away to join the circus?”

I suppose I did resemble a runaway. “You seem to have forgotten I already work there.”

Seth Mann joined me. Though he must have been awakened by the noise, he was still smiling like the Happy Buddha he physically resembled. “So, where are we headed to at two thirty in the morning?”

“Sirius is standing guard over a dog that looks like she’s been through the wringer. He ran off a pack of coyotes that I suspect had the intention of making a meal of her.”

“That explains the roar I heard, followed by the annoyed sounds of you calling Sirius’s name.”

“He tends to be hard of hearing when there’s a damsel in distress.”

“Is that an ongoing problem?”

“I would categorize it more as a display of testosterone than I would a problem.”

“There are always neuticles,” he said.

“New to what?”

“Neuticles,” he said. “Fake balls for male dogs that get neutered.”

“You’re kidding. Or should I say, ‘Are you
nuts
?’”

“One of my clients swears by them. He says his dog’s behavior is much improved since he was neutered. The only reason he hesitated having the procedure done was that he didn’t want his dog’s appearance altered.”

“Your client is crazy.”

“He says half a million dogs are walking around with neuticles.”

“The thought of that gives me the
willies
.”

“I blame myself for initiating this line of conversation.”

“You should. And you should also know K-9 dogs are purposely left intact. There are situations that call for ample aggression, and that means balls to the wall and no neuticles need apply.”

“Say no more. The topic is now closed.”

“You don’t need to be
testes
.”

Seth sighed. I was at least hoping for a groan. The appearance of Sirius, who came bounding over to see one of his favorite people in the world, spared Seth from more puns.

Sirius led us back to his friend, who growled at our approach. Seth pulled up short and gave me a look.

“I’m pretty sure her bark is worse than her bite,” I said. “Everything I’ve seen suggests she’s doing it more out of habit than intent.”

Sirius played the role of ambassador, moving back and forth between his friend and the two of us, assuring everyone that all was well with the wagging of his tail.

“I think she’s blind in her left eye,” I said. “I’m favoring her good eye so as not to spook her.”

I filled a bowl with water, and then slowly, carefully, drew close to the wounded dog.

“How about some water?” I asked. My voice was high and unthreatening.

I placed the bowl on the ground. She tried to stand and drink, but her legs were too wobbly, prompting me to reposition the bowl so she didn’t have to get up. She immediately started drinking and didn’t stop until the bowl was empty. With measured, deliberate movements I retrieved the bowl, filled it once more, and again placed it within reach of her muzzle. She quickly finished most of what was there.

Seth asked, “How do you say, ‘I come in peace?’ in caninese?”

“I am a firm believer in the time-honored method of bribery.”

I gave Sirius a sweet potato-and-duck strip, and then offered one to his friend. She seemed shy about taking it from my hand, but when I put it on the ground, she made quick work of it.

Each of the dogs was given another strip. Bit by bit I narrowed the distance between me and the wounded dog. She was mindful of my proximity, but no longer looked threatened by it.