That Dog Won't Hunt Page 5

  My appetite wasn’t much. I gulped down two cups of coffee strong enough to remove shingles. Then I took Gladys to the shed. I roped her onto the back of our biggest quad and set off.

  “You’re gonna see someplace where the hand of man has never set foot.” That made me laugh. Count on me never to lose my sense of humor.

  It took an hour to get back to the deepest part of the forest around Kinsol Mountain. Then I set off on foot. Neat and clean. No tracks. With the ground hard, the going was easier than usual. Snow was predicted for tomorrow night.

  Gladys weighed about a hundred pounds. More than the cub. My muscles were shrieking as it got steeper. Fir, spruce, pesky alder raked at me. Nothing but a moose would come here, or something with jaws and claws. There was that cleft, the baby bear’s tomb. No sign of it down in those dark shadows.

  “You should have played fair with me, Gladdie.”

  Off she went. That hand mocked me, sticking out with the ring. I tossed down some rocks and moss until it was covered.

  That night as I finished the last of the rye, I thought about the plan. She’d been telling everyone that she was leaving for the Southwest as usual. Then I stopped and hit myself upside the head. One problem, fool. Why’s the Mustang still in the shed? No wonder I had dreamed about it. Pay attention! It’s only been one day. You have time.

  Gladys had a forever home. Now the car needed one. Consulting the topos, I found the deepest lake in the vicinity. A meteor crater, some said. Over six hundred feet in the middle. An old logging road ran nearby along a steep cliff. The Mustang had low clearance, but if I pushed her, she’d make it. That car had guts to spare.

  I left at night just in case anyone might be on the highway. The little 50cc motorbike was in the trunk. At the site, I slept in the car. When dawn came, I stood at the side of the road looking down about sixty feet. I picked up a large rock and pitched it. Splash! Into that blue water until you couldn’t see it anymore. Rebel Without a Cause, that’s me. Except that I had a good one. Too bad about the car. She was prime. I hauled the little motorcycle out of the trunk.

  “Goodbye, old friend,” I said as I fired up the Mustang. I aimed her for the lip of the canyon. It wasn’t in the cards for us to stay together. I had the door open and my left foot ready to hit the ground. I gunned her and pitched out plenty early, rolling in the gravel. I skinned my elbow pretty good and tore the sleeve of my jacket. I’d have a damn good bruise on my hip, but nothing was broken. My luck was holding.

  I almost cried when that cherry-red beauty disappeared under the water. With the windows wide-open, it went down real fast. Bubbles came up. Then all was still. An owl called. “I kno-o-o-ow. I kno-o-o-ow.” Revving up the cycle, I rode the hydro-pole line back to where it crossed one corner of our property.

  Just as I got back, it started to snow big time. That would put a nice blanket on everything, including the car tracks at the lake. Not that anyone ever went there.

  I slept ten hours and got up feeling like a new man.

  Then, on his next delivery, I told the postman about Gladys leaving for a few months as usual. Gave him the fee to hold her mail at the post office for six months.

  I bided my sweet time, following every part of my plan. Shelley stayed with me one night at the lodge. She brought a pan of frozen cabbage rolls and a loaf of Wonder bread. With her looks, she didn’t need to cook.

  “Wow! Real French wine,” she said when I hauled out the last bottle. It didn’t cost but seven dollars.

  “Nothing but the best for you, hon.”

  “Super nice,” Shelley said. We were nestling in one of the corner bedrooms. It would have been a bit nervy to take the master. “This is all, like, so perfect, Rick. With what I’ve saved and your job this summer, we’ll get that place you told me about. Soon as I get packed in a few days, we can leave. My Toyota’s ten years old, but it’s in good shape.”

  From outside the window we could hear the wind shrieking as a front moved in. A major thaw was on the way, weatherman said.

  “I can’t wait to get away from all this snow.”

  “There’s just enough in Utah to make the desert pretty,” I said. “A little stardust.” I covered her shoulder with butterfly kisses.

  “How long will it take to get there?” she asked.

  “We’ll take our time and see the sights,” I said. “Have some fun at the casinos in Michigan.”

  “And Vegas too?”

  “Guaranteed.” My finger tapped the tip of her tiny nose. “Five or six times a year.”

  “Tell me about your ranch, Rick,” she asked.

  “Our ranch. I’ll put up a real fancy sign. The R Circle S.” I drew her a brand in the air. The radio was playing “Something Happened on the Way to Heaven.” I couldn’t help but smile.

  “What’s so funny?” She licked her bottom lip like she wanted to understand the joke.

  “Nothing, babe.” I could drown in those emerald eyes. Little flecks of gold I never noticed. “Let’s take a bubble bath.”

  “You’re so romantic.” We got out of bed. Then she stepped on the Mr. Chile dog toy. It squeaked. “So what happened to Bucky? Did Mrs. Ryan take him?”

  For once I didn’t feel like lying.

  “That’s the funny thing. He wandered off just before she left. She’d arranged for Harvey to take care of him anyway. Figured he was getting too old for the heat down south.”

  “Yeah, he’s pretty old. I guess he’s had a good life.”

  “Gladys has a soft heart. If he can walk and still enjoys his food, his ticket won’t be punched. But suffering, that’s another story. She left Harvey the name of her vet in case.”

  “My mom said that dogs are our best friends.”

  “You got it.”

  Flea factory. And let’s not forget the shit I stepped in when he took a dump too close to the house. And that had gotten more and more often. Lazy bastard.

  I biffed Mr. Chile into the toybox.

  CHAPTER TEN

  T

  ime to go. Gladys, check. Car, check. Money, check. Shelley was picking me up at noon.

  The money was all in those nice American hundreds plus some traveling Canadian cash. Fast as a bug, we’d disappear into red-rock country. As for Gladys, when she didn’t return in the spring, what the hell could anyone do? People went missing all the time in the US. Even in Canada. Even with their cars. And there was no way anyone was heading anywhere near Kinsol Mountain. Not until 2190 when they built a Walmart.

  That morning the thaw arrived. Ten degrees above freezing was sending the early snow packing. The eaves were dripping with icicles. I was having a last coffee on the porch, enjoying the warm wind, when Harvey came along. I’d forgotten to tell him about Bucky’s wanderings. Luck was being a lady to me.

  He rolled up the drive in his Jeep, skewing in the slush.

  “Crazy weather, or what?” he said, taking off a tweedy wool hat as he got out. “Not that I’m complaining.”

  “Come on up to the porch. Coffee’s hot.”

  Giving me a friendly grin, he took a rocker. I brought out the coffee and gave him the mug. He cradled it in his hands and sipped.

  “Haven’t seen a thaw this early since 1975. It’s pneumonia weather,” he said.

  “Damn straight. I think I’m getting a cold.” I cleared my throat for effect.

  “How’s Gladys doing?” he asked. “She get there yet?”

  My heart thumped a beat.

  “She called the other day. Her arthritis is a lot better down in Southern California.”

  “That’s what she always says. Too bad she can’t live there. No health care though. So what are your plans?” he asked, looking around. “See you got the shutters locked and the place all secured.”

  “I’m going today when my…ride comes. But I might be back in the spring.” Leaving a door open was a good idea to take the heat off me. “She said to tell you to keep the drive free.” I reached for my wallet and peeled off two hundred dolla
rs.

  With a grin, he pocketed the money.

  “Hey, I ain’t seen old Buck come around in a while,” he said, sipping the coffee. Harvey kept steak bones for him.

  I raised an eyebrow.

  “I’m worried too. Seems he went off…a few days ago. I was thinking a coyote or wolf got him. Easy pickings. I’ve seen their tracks in the snow. Keep an eye out. Gladys will settle up for his care. And you know the vet she uses.” Only one in town.

  Harvey nodded, and I was congratulating myself on the story. Had I covered all the bases or what? Ten days tops, and Nufflo would be nuzzling one cheek and Shelley the other.

  “Poor schnook,” he said, rubbing his knee. “He was a heck of a dog when he was young though. George hunted him from the time he was a pup.”

  I folded my arms and chuckled.

  “Come on, now. That dog won’t hunt.”

  “You didn’t know him when. Nose like a bloodhound. What a birder. George never went out but he came back loaded. Ducks in the fall, grouse and partridge all winter.”

  Both our mugs were empty. I should offer a refill, but I wanted him on his way. Instead of joining into the conversation, I just ummed a bit.

  “Hey, isn’t that Buck?” Harvey asked as a honey-colored form appeared from back of the shed. “Holy jumpin’. Didn’t I tell you? What’s that in his mouth? Get you a bunny, Mr. Buck?”

  We both stood as the dog limped slowly forward. Its fur was matted and tufted. One ear was half torn off. Blood streamed from his nose.

  “He’s in a bad way. Come, boy.” Harvey got up and extended a hand.

  At the bottom of the porch, Bucky stopped and dropped the five-fingered burden.

  “That’s no rabbit,” Harvey said as he turned to me, his eyes narrowing.

  That cigar-band ring was lucky one last time.

  LOU ALLIN is the author of the Belle Palmer Mystery series set in Northern Ontario. Now living on Vancouver Island with her border collies and mini-poodle, she is working on a new series where the rainforest meets the sea. That Dog Won’t Hunt is her first title in the new Rapid Reads series from Orca’s Raven Books imprint.

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  The Way It Works by William Kowalski.

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  Can Walter Davis succeed when the odds are stacked against him?

  Walter Davis is young, handsome, intelligent and personable. He is also homeless. The medical expenses that came with his mother's unsuccessful battle with cancer have left him destitute. When he meets the girl of his dreams, his situation gets even more complicated. Trying to impress a girlfriend when you have no fixed address proves difficult. And when he's caught in a lie, she shuns his company. Only resilience, ingenuity and his drive to succeed can bring Walter back from the brink of despair.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Y

  ou probably think you can tell if someone is homeless just by looking at them. But you’re wrong. You can’t. Because not every homeless person looks like a bum. Take it from me. I’m an expert. Nothing in this world is as it seems.

  Look at that guy over there. The one in the brown uniform, unloading boxes from the delivery truck. He looks clean. He has a job. Maybe not a great one, but it’s a job. How much you think he makes? Minimum wage. Maybe a dollar more.

  Well, you can’t make it on minimum anymore. Not in this city.

  So how does he get by? Maybe he lives with his parents. Maybe his wife has a job too. Or maybe he washed his face and hair in the bathroom of a McDonald’s this morning. Maybe he sleeps in the back of his truck. You just don’t know.

  Here’s another one. A well-dressed white lady, sitting on that bench over there. She’s got a skirt suit and high heels on. There’s a nice purse in her lap. She’s all dainty, the way she eats out of that plastic container. Her pinky sticks out like she’s at a tea party. You look at her and you think, Rich. Or at least comfortable.

  But wait a minute. If she’s so comfortable, why is she just sitting there on a bench downtown at nine thirty in the morning? Could be she’s just killing time. Or maybe she has nowhere else to go. Maybe those clothes are the only nice things she owns. Maybe she got that food out of a trash can, and she’s trying to make it last, because she doesn’t know where her next meal is coming from.

  Or take this guy, now. A young, light-skinned black man. Maybe twenty-one, twenty-two years old, clean-cut, in good shape. Not a bad-looking guy. A little on the short side. He’s wearing a beautiful suit and carrying a nice briefcase. His shoes are so shiny they hurt your eyes. He’s bopping along the sidewalk like he owns the place. Full of self-confidence. A spring in his step. Looks like nothing can stop him. Like he’s on his way to take over the world.

  You would never know that this well-dressed young man slept in his car last night. Or that he can only afford to eat once a day. Or that he’s been trying to get a job for the last six months, but no one will hire him.

  How do I know all this?

  Because that young black man is me.

  I’m Walter Davis. I’m twenty years old. My moms and I moved to this city about a year ago. We didn’t know anybody here. But there was lots of opportunity. Moms was already trained as a paralegal, and I was going to community college. This city was supposed to be a new start for us. A brand-new life. The beginning of something better.

  And for a while, it was.

  Things started out great. Moms got a job at an important law firm. She had to work hard, but the money was worth it. It was the first professional job she ever had. Before that, she was a waitress. This was a big step up.

  We got an apartment in a decent part of the city. Not too much crime, no graffiti on the buildings. Little by little, we started getting all the things we dreamed of. Nice kitchen appliances. A set of furniture for the living room. A flat-screen TV. We even got a car. It was used, sure, but we didn’t care. Our last car wasn’t even from this century. Sometimes it didn’t even work. Now we had a steel-gray 2000 Chevrolet Caprice. It ran like a dream.

  We were coming up in the world.

  For my twentieth birthday, right before I graduated, Moms gave me a present. It was a suit. But not just any suit. It was a pin-striped wool Turnbull & Asser. She also gave me a pair of Tanino Crisci shoes and an Underwood briefcase. It must have cost her thousands. I told her to take it all back. But she said she wanted me to look my best when I started going on job interviews. The world judges a man by how he looks, she said.

  I don’t think I ever saw my moms really happy until we moved here. And I was happy too. We had it rough for a long time. Happiness was a welcome change.

  Then came the life-insurance exam.

  Moms wanted some security for me, in case anything happened to her. She could get a good deal on a policy, but she had to go see a doctor first. No big deal, right?

  Except the doctor found a spot on her lungs. “Oops,” he said. “You better get that checked out.”

  So she did. There wasn’t just one spot. There were more. It turned out to be advanced lung cancer. How did that happen? Moms didn’t even smoke.

  I’ll make a long story short. I don’t like feeling sorry for myself.

  There was to be no life insurance. Soon, my moms was too sick to work. She lost her health insurance. I took care of her as best I could. She passed away in a public hospice, in a room full of other dying people. I was holding her hand.

  At least I was there for her. Some folks in that place died alone.

  I kept on trying to find a job. No one was interested. Times are tough.

  Soon our building went co-op. I couldn’t afford to buy in. They told me I had to leave.

  I sold all the things we were so proud of: television, furniture, appliances. That gave me some cash. Not much though. Enough to get by for a couple of months.

  I started looking for a new apartment. But guess what? Landlords don’t want tenan
ts who don’t have a job. It’s that simple. No job, no apartment. That’s the way it works.

  I moved the few things I still owned into the trunk of my car. The first night I had to sleep in the backseat, I vowed it would be the last.

  But it wasn’t.

  Boom. Just like that, I was homeless.

  It really is that easy to lose everything, all in the blink of an eye.

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  When everything goes wrong at once, Missy Turner begins to make some unusual choices.

  Missy Turner thinks of herself as the most ordinary woman in the world. She has a lot to be thankful for—a great kid, a loving husband, a job she enjoys and the security of living in the small town where she was born. Then one day everything gets turned upside down—she loses her job, catches her husband making out with the neighbor and is briefly taken hostage by a young man who robs the local café. With her world rapidly falling apart, Missy finds herself questioning the certainties she's lived with her whole life.

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  Someone is killing some of Charlie D's favorite listeners.

  Charlie D is the host of a successful late-night radio call-in show that offers supportive advice to troubled listeners. Love You to Death takes place during one installment of "The World According to Charlie D"— two hours during which Charlie must discover who is killing some of the most vulnerable members of his audience.

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  It will take all of Charlie D's skills to keep this Halloween from being another "Day of the Dead."

  Charlie D is back doing his late-night radio call-in show. It's Halloween—The Day of the Dead. His studio guest this evening is Dr. Robin Harris, an arrogant and ambitious “expert in the arts of dying and grieving.” Charlie and Dr. Harris do not hit it off. Things go from bad to worse when the doctor's ex-lover goes on air to announce that he's about to end his life.