Dogs Read Free

out-of-control animal. “Okay, where’s Billy?”
    â€œNot in yet.”
    â€œ Get him in.”
    â€œYou want me to call him, Jess?” Suzanne took one step closer to him.
    â€œYes, I want you to call him! And tell him if he’s not here in ten minutes, he’s fired. God, he only lives across the street.”
    â€œTough guy,” Suzanne murmured, gazing up at him from under her lashes. Jess retreated to his car.
    Three minutes later Billy Davis—at thirty-eight, he still didn’t want to be called “Bill”—tumbled into the car beside Jess. His shirt was half-buttoned and he smelled of sex. “Hi, Jess. Sorry about being late. This little lady from the Moonlight Lounge—”
    â€œI don’t want to hear about it,” Jess said, and hoped that Billy knew he meant it. Both of them knew that Jess tolerated Billy, his lateness and unreliability, only for old-time’s sake, although Billy was a very good animal handler when he settled down to it. One look at Jess’s face and Billy settled now, buttoning his shirt and saying professionally, “What we got?”
    â€œSix dog bites since closing last night.”
    â€œSix?”
    â€œThat’s what the man said.”
    â€œWho? Give me the slips.”
    Jess did, starting the car and peeling out of the parking lot, a bit of juvenile acting out that only made him irritated with himself as well as with Billy. “You were supposed to be on call last night, Billy. How come you didn’t answer any of these?”
    â€œNever got the calls,” Billy said blandly. “Telephone system must be screwed up again. You know last month it didn’t route to my cell, either.”
    Jess said nothing, and Billy knew enough to shut up. He started making the call-backs while Jess drove to Susan Parcell’s place out Old Schoolhouse Road.
    It was a small country farmhouse gussied up to look a century older than it really was: new fieldstone chimney, cast-iron coach lights, faux Federalist detailing. As Jess pulled up, a man raced outside, carrying a plastic garbage bag.
    â€œWait!” Jess said. “We’re from Animal Control, we received a call that—”
    â€œYou’re too late,” the man said brutally. “I shot the bitch!”
    Jess and Billy glanced at each other. The man looked distraught, unshaven, wild-eyed. Billy’s hand rested lightly on the gun at his hip. Jess hoped suddenly that "bitch" referred to a female dog.
    The man resumed his rush toward his car. Deftly Jess stood in front of the driver’s door and said soothingly, “Look, this will just take a moment, I promise. We need some basic information. Are you Mr. Parcell?”
    â€œNo, Parcell is my ex-wife’s maiden name, she took it back after the divorce. I’m Daniel Kingwell. Look, I have to go back to the hospital, I just came to get some of Jenny’s things, Big Pink, she never goes anywhere without it—” Abruptly he looked away.
    Jess could just discern the outlines of a pink stuffed animal of some sort bulging within the plastic bag. “Jenny is your daughter, Mr. Kinwell? The dog-bite victim? Please tell me briefly what happened.”
    The man seemed to respond to the tone of voice. It was Jess’s chief asset, that voice. Deep and soothing, it could calm when others failed, elicit information others could not. Billy was a better animal handler and, Good Ol’ Boy that he was, a better shot. Jess handled that most difficult animal, Homo sapiens .
    The man talked in quick, agitated bursts. “I came last night to pick up my kids for the evening… Sue decided she wanted to live all the way out here in the country, even though driving up from D.C. is…never mind that, I’m sorry, I’m a bit…we were in the kitchen when Donnie, my son, let in Princess. He said she’d been gone for a day or two, she’s been the family dog for