Cutter's Run Read Free Page A

permission.” She pinched the bridge of her nose and let out a long breath. “When you see Ms. Gillespie, you might ask her.”
    “I’m not sure I will see her,” I said. “I don’t really know her. I just saw her carrying that dog, so I gave her a ride.”
    “Well,” she said, “I can’t keep the dog forever. If she doesn’t tell me what to do, I’ll have to incinerate it.”
    “I’ll drop by her place,” I said. “Try to get an answer for you.”
    “That would be a big help, Mr. Coyne.”
    “Look,” I said. “I’d like to take care of the bill.”
    She smiled, and I realized it was the first time I’d seen her smile. “That’s very nice of you.”
    I handed her my Visa card and signed the stub after she’d run it through her machine. Eighty-five dollars.
    “A lot of people bring in sick animals and never come back for them,” she said.
    “And never pay their bills.”
    She shrugged.
    “I’ll talk to her,” I said.
    I picked up my paper at Leon’s store, then drove over the dirt roads that led to the plywood sign with the evil spray-painted swastika.
    I left my Jeep under the sign and began walking down the narrow rutted roadway where I had seen the cats come out of the woods and trail behind Charlotte. It followed a curving stone wall, crossed a dried-up streambed, climbed uphill through a stand of second-growth poplar and alder mixed with juniper and old apple, and ended about a mile into the woods at a rolling meadow on a knoll.
    Charlotte’s house sat with its back to the dark pine woods, facing across the meadow to the south. It looked as if it had originally been a hunter’s shack—a simple square, shingled cabin with a door in the middle flanked by two small windows with an aluminum stovepipe sticking out of the roof. Flat-roofed ells had been added onto each end. No electric or telephone wires led into it.
    It was a pretty spot, with a long view across the sloping meadow to the hills in the distance. A stream snaked its way through the valley. A good place for somebody who liked the outdoors and wanted a heavy dose of solitude.
    Charlotte was doing her best to make a home out of it. The door was barn red, recently painted, and a variety of annual flowers—petunias, marigolds, impatiens, and several that I didn’t recognize—were blooming along the field-stone path leading up to it. A mud-spattered mountain bike—the kind with knobby tires and about a hundred gears—leaned against the side of the house next to the door.
    I walked up the path and knocked on the door. I waited a minute, then knocked again and called, “Charlotte? It’s Brady Coyne.”
    A moment later I heard a voice behind me. “Mr. Coyne,” she said softly. “Hello.”
    I turned. She was wearing overalls over a gray T-shirt, work boots, and cotton gloves. Her hair was tucked up under a wide-brimmed straw hat. “I was out back tending my vegetable garden,” she said. She tucked a stray strand of hair up under her hat and started to smile, then stopped herself. “Is it about Jack?”
    I nodded.
    She tugged off her gloves. “He died, didn’t he?”
    “I’m afraid so, yes.”
    She took off her hat, dropped her gloves into it, and shook out her hair. “He wasn’t even two years old,” she said. “I made sure he had all his shots.”
    “The vet,” I said, “Dr. Spear, she thinks it might’ve been poison.”
    Charlotte looked at me. “Poison,” she said softly. “Oh, dear.” She shook her head, then went to the steps that led up to her front door and sat down. I sat beside her.
    “I’m sorry,” I said.
    She leaned forward with her elbows on her knees and her chin in her hands. “You’re very kind to come by, Mr. Coyne,” she whispered. “He was the cutest little dog. Who’d want to poison a sweet little dog like Jack?”
    “He might’ve just gotten into something.”
    “Like what?”
    I shrugged. “Antifreeze Rat poison. Mushrooms. Maybe somebody put out something for