Punish (Feral Justice Book 1) Page 7

  But if he did, he and others might arrive with rifles. How could she face Joe if she’d been the one to condemn his beloved companions to death?

  They hadn’t been found guilty, damn it! And even if they were responsible for the killings, those horrid men deserved what they'd gotten.

  Her head pounded.

  When Gun reached the trees, he stopped and turned so he could study the woman. She should mean nothing to him, shouldn’t have distracted him from what had brought him to the pasture. However, the longer he watched her, the more convinced he became that he’d seen her before. Maybe his brother, sister and he had spotted her during one of their now frequent forays.

  He took note of her stride, the way she moved her arms and how she carried herself. She reached the main building, pulled open a door and stepped inside. As she disappeared, it came to him. Not long ago he’d seen her with Food-man. That day she’d hesitantly approached the enclosure Food-man had locked them in. At first the woman had stood back from the wire fencing but then Food-man had placed his hand on her shoulder. They’d talked. She’d slipped her hand through the fence, touched Smoke.

  Food-man had feelings for her. She was important to him.

  “Remember why you’re here.”

  He whined. The Force was becoming more and more insistent. After what he’d been part of yesterday, all he’d wanted was to spend today sleeping, but the Force wouldn’t allow it. The lumbering creatures that lived inside the fencing didn’t hold much interest for him. From what he’d determined, they feared nothing and spent all their time eating. They had no enemies.

  Enemies.

  Evil men.

  The here and now faded and was replaced by what had happened when his brother, sister and he comprehended who was responsible for the little dogs’ miserable living conditions. Until they’d seen the cages, he and his siblings hadn’t understood why the Force had made them so restless, so driven. They hadn’t known what they were seeking, just that they were.

  Then, suddenly, everything had made sense.

  More than that.

  The two men’s fear had both fascinated and confused him. He hadn’t known what, if anything, he should do—until one of the men threw a tiny dog. The little thing’s dying screams had shaken loose something fierce inside him.

  He’d make the humans pay for what they’d done.

  Not just himself. His brother and sister had joined in the attack. They’d torn the evil ones apart, done what the Force compelled them to.

  Not just the Force. Their own rage had factored in.

  Justice done. Revenge.

  Another whimper escaped him. That coupled with the sounds the pasture animals were making brought him back to now. Dismissing the woman and the question of what she meant to Food-man, he lowered his head and sniffed. The scent of dried blood had brought him here. He’d been trying to locate its source when he’d been distracted.

  There. Staining the ground ahead of him.

  And over there where a massive tree’s roots snaked over the ground.

  And higher on the slope.

  What animals had died in those places, and why did it matter to the Force?

  He’d bring his siblings here. With their help, maybe he’d be able to answer the questions.

  More than just answers—justice.

  Revenge.

  Punish.

  Chapter Six

  Lobo trotted from one end of his enclosure to the other, spun and retraced his steps. The wolf-dog carried his head high, making it too easy for Nate to see his piercing golden eyes. As Lobo had done the first time Nate had been out here, the canine studied him before turning his attention back to the horizon.

  Nate’s stomach growled. Hopefully today wouldn’t go as long as yesterday had, but he wouldn’t bet on it. Lobo’s owner, Wayde Carlson, had four wolf-dogs, but where the others had more doglike traits, including the ability to bond with humans, the nearly black Lobo acted exactly as Nate figured a wolf would if forced to live his life inside a fenced enclosure. The enclosure was roomy enough so all four animals had plenty of space, but he didn’t have to study Lobo long to know the creature wanted out.

  “I thought I might hear from you,” Wayde said.

  “I figured you would.” Nate held out his hand and the two men shook. Wayde had been wrestling a post hole digger when Nate arrived, but had turned it off and walked over as Nate got out of his vehicle. Wayde was in his mid-twenties, a man with firmly held beliefs and a deep independent streak. The two acres he lived on had been left to him by an uncle who, according to Wayde, had stepped in when Wayde’s father stepped out. Wayde hadn’t explained how he earned a living, but that wasn’t Nate’s concern.

  “It sounds like a damn mess,” Wayde said. “Two killings on top of that awful puppy mill. I learned long ago not to believe anything the press puts out, but there has to be a nugget of the truth in there, right?”

  “I haven’t had time to watch the news. My job is to try to find the dog or dogs involved in the attack.”

  “It wasn’t mine. Look around. They’re where they belong.”

  Another time Nate might have argued the point with Wayde, who’d made no secret of the fact that he didn’t have much use for governmental agencies and took pride in living off the land as much as possible. Nate wouldn’t be surprised if growing and selling marijuana was part of his self-sufficiency, but without proof he wasn’t going to say anything to law enforcement. The way he saw it, he needed to maintain a working relationship with Wayde.

  “What’s the problem?” Wayde asked. “You’re thinking I don’t have any business having hybrids?”

  They’d had this discussion before and had wound up agreeing to disagree. Nate was too young to be Wayde’s father, and, even if he had been, he’d learned there was no changing Wayde’s mind. The young man saw the wolf-dogs as a key part of his self-sufficient stand. According to Wayde, Lobo and the others were just like him in that they wanted to be left alone, free.

  Freedom couldn’t be played out behind a cyclone enclosure. If Lobo was content with his existence, he wouldn’t be leaving strands of hair on the top of the fence from his escape attempts.

  “You said it before,” Nate said, “but I’m going to ask it again. You’ll vouch that they never get out?”

  Wayde shook his head, sending long, dry dark hair to flying. “Absolutely not. Look, I know how some people feel about what I have. I don’t need any more hassle. Besides, not only is the run more than strong enough to keep the four contained, they’re a pack. They want to stay together. This is their home.”

  No, it isn’t.

  Lobo hadn’t stopped his restless and compulsive trotting. According to Wayde, Lobo was the youngest. The other three consisted of full sisters and a half-brother. Wayde had paid a breeder to create Lobo from a captive male wolf and a female German shepherd after the breeder insured Wayde that the bitch didn’t have any aggressive tendencies. Nate wasn’t sure Wayde’s decision had been a wise one. What he had no doubt of was that Lobo didn’t give a damn about humans. He wanted to be somewhere else, doing anything except what he was.

  Maybe, judging by the hairs clinging to the top of the fencing, he had been.

  Maybe all four wolf-dogs had gotten free but had returned to home base after turning two men into hamburger meat.

  “I’m going to get some puppies out of him,” Wayde said. “He’s too beautiful not to pass on his genes.”

  The announcement bothered Nate, yet he understood where Wayde was coming from. Lobo’s thick, glossy black coat highlighted long muscular legs, big paws and an oversized head. Like most wolf-dogs, Lobo’s chest was narrower than that of dogs of a similar height, but what some people might see as a weakness was offset by a body capable of almost endless movement. Everything about the beautiful and unnerving creature said hunter.

  “I’m turning your name over to the detectives working the case. I don’t have a choice.”

  Nate had seen Wayde’s mood
shifts before, so he wasn’t surprised by his quick anger. “I told you. They haven’t gotten loose.” He jerked his head at Lobo. “If he had I’m not sure he would have come back.”

  The other time they’d talked, Wayde had gone on about the close bond between himself and his wolf-dogs. This admission was new, probably closer to reality.

  “Like I said, it’s out of my hands,” Nate replied.

  “And they won’t take my word for it any more than you will.”

  “You won’t have to say anything if you don’t want to. They’ll use DNA.”

  “Shit. How long will that take?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Wayde studied his long hands with their ragged, dirty nails. “I don’t want to be harassed. Have cops stomping all over my land.”

  Do you have something to hide? “Don’t you want them cleared?”

  “It wasn’t my animals.”

  “Then the police won’t be here long. They will need your cooperation getting the necessary samples.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  “Why wouldn’t you? You just said they’re innocent.”

  The young man studied Lobo. “The cops aren’t going to understand. They’ll take one look at my hybrids and think I’m crazy for having them.”

  Animal control wouldn’t know about the wolf-dogs if several parents of high schoolers hadn’t called asking for reassurance that the canines didn’t pose a danger. Wayde’s property wasn’t far from the high school and more than one student had posted pictures of the animals. The parents’ concern was that the wolf-dogs might be more than distractions. Kids being kids, the parents pointed out, they’d continue to be drawn to the wolf-dogs—unless and until the animals were moved far away.

  Nate had spent some time watching the pack and had reported that the facility was up to the agency’s standards in terms of security. He’d also made the point that, although wolves were predators, they weren’t naturally aggressive around humans.

  What he’d downplayed at his manager’s suggestion—Crosby hadn’t wanted to unduly alarm anyone—was that if a wolf’s predatory traits were combined with aggressive dog breeds all bets could be off. Wolves’ complex social structure revolved around a hierarchy of dominance. Alpha captive wolves were known to challenge their human caretakers. Add that instinct to a dog bred to defend and attack and all hell could break loose—something Nate knew Wayde was well aware of.

  * * * *

  “Channel Ten has called three times asking for you,” the long-time evening volunteer said as Nate came in the back door. “There have been two calls from Channel Six and an equal number from the newspaper. I know I shouldn’t have answered the phone so late but what if there’d been another attack?”

  Another? “Why are they interested in me?”

  “Did you catch the sheriff’s press conference? It was on the news.”

  Nate shook his head. If, and it was a big if, he was home in time for the eleven p.m. news, he’d listen. Otherwise he’d have to wait until morning.

  Call Douglas at least. Tell him what you saw or thought you saw at the kill site. Why the hell are you keeping that to yourself?

  “The sheriff mentioned you by name.” The middle-aged woman everyone called Mom broke into Nate’s thoughts.

  “What did he say?”

  “That you, in your capacity as an animal control officer, were called to the scene of the violence—that’s how Crosby phrased it—shortly after initial law enforcement arrived. Needless to say once he started detailing how the victims died, the press pushed for details. You could tell they were shook.”

  And now the press was trying to add to what the sheriff had told them, which made him a prime target.

  A half hour ago he’d believed he was done for the day. Then Crosby had called asking him to come in for a quick meeting. He located the manager and the two other officers in Crosby’s cramped office. Irene stood in a corner, her arms folded under her small breasts, while sixty-four-year-old Dick sat across from Crosby. Irene reminded Nate of a whippet. The twenty-five-year-old ran an average of five miles every morning and was always in training for some marathon or the other. In contrast, Dick had given up all but the most essential physical activity. Nate and Irene had wondered whether Dick would survive the first year of his retirement. Irene had been hopeful, Nate less so because he knew about his mentor’s high blood pressure and diabetes.

  “I know you all want to go home,” Crosby said as Nate leaned against a table covered with files, “but I want to make sure we’re all on the same page. Tomorrow isn’t going to be any easier than today has been.”

  Even though there were times when Nate wanted Crosby to simply let him do what needed to be done, Crosby was the right man for this job. He knew every law and regulation relating to animals and spent a tremendous amount of time advocating for the department’s budget. Crosby understood how the county was run, which commissioners to focus on, media relations and the care and feeding of volunteers.

  “This has already made the national news,” he said. “I wish we could turn everything over to law enforcement, but because it involves animals—”

  “My mother called,” Irene broke in. “She wants to know what’s really going on and if I’m safe.”

  “You didn’t tell her anything, did you?”

  “She’s my mother, Crosby. She worries about her little girl.”

  Despite her diminutive size, Irene was one of the toughest people Nate had ever known. He’d never seen her hesitate to approach an animal. They seemed to know she wouldn’t take any flak from them, and that they could trust her. He wondered when reality would temper her enthusiasm for the job and she’d start bottling things up the way Dick and he did.

  “I don’t care who she is,” Crosby said. His thick-framed glasses added to his stern appearance. “We have to give confidentiality priority. Nate, I’ll try to protect you from the press but I wouldn’t put it past them to try to reach you when you’re in the field.”

  “Hot damn,” Dick muttered. “Your fifteen minutes of fame.”

  “I can’t stop working,” Nate said. “I’ve only seen three of the five people at the top of my possible list.”

  “How’d it go with those three?”

  Nate gave them a quick rundown. In addition to going to Joe’s place and talking to Wayde, he’d driven to the area east of Silver Hill where an extended family lived in trailers and cabins. He’d seen all five of their pit bulls. In addition, he’d spotted a couple of Rottweiler mixes the teenager he’d talked to insisted belonged to a cousin who was going to pick them up as soon as he got back in town. The teenager hadn’t liked hearing that law enforcement would soon be out to verify the cousin’s story and take DNA samples.

  “What does your instinct say?” Crosby asked. “Are any of those animals capable of doing what happened to the brothers?”

  He hadn’t mentioned that Joe’s grays hadn’t been home. He should have. He was risking his job keeping that to himself, didn’t understand why he’d made the decision except he knew how much Joe loved the trio. Until or unless he had proof that the group was responsible, he’d protect the man who reminded him of and had known his father. The man who’d spent a year of his life in hell and had never fully recovered, whatever recovery was.

  He wasn’t keeping one maybe vital piece of information from the authorities, but two. What was wrong with him? Who or what had climbed into his skull and started playing around with his understanding of right and wrong?

  Suddenly, he was afraid of himself.

  “Have we heard any more from the medical examiner?” He barely recognized his voice.

  “I haven’t,” Crosby said, “but then I’ve been on the phone since the full story broke. We have people calling saying their neighbor’s or relative’s dogs need looking at. One good thing is coming out of this. We’re getting a lot of offers from people willing to foster or adopt the puppy mill dogs.”

  “I’ve fielded a few
of those calls myself.” Irene yawned. “Bonnie’s frazzled but happy. She’ll handle that end of things.”

  “Thank goodness for Bonnie,” Crosby said. “Nate, first thing tomorrow you finish up with your initial list, then respond to some of the calls that come in from now on, and they will. Crosby and Irene, I already have lists for you.”

  “Changing subjects,” Irene said, “how many mill dogs are well enough to leave the shelter?”

  “Right now a little more than half of them. Hopefully enough donations will come in to cover their expenses. Two vets have stepped forward to assist Dr. Walters.” Crosby’s smile faded. “About the other cases you’re working on, the regular stuff, I’m afraid that’s going to have to wait.”

  Dick frowned. “I have three—”

  “Unless there’s an emergency situation, put them on the back burner. You all know I don’t want to say this, but we don’t have a choice. Hell just opened up.”

  As he stood, Nate wondered when, and how, it would end.

  And what shape he’d be in when it did.

  Chapter Seven

  Something wasn’t right about his bedroom. It wasn’t just the lack of snoring bodies or even the return of the emptiness he hadn’t felt since the dogs came into his life. Feeling older than his years, Joe sat on the side of his bed, placed his battered hands between his bony knees and studied the room where early morning sunlight highlighted floating dust. The beds he’d bought were still on the floor. The dogs ignored them. He should have gotten rid of them but, like a lot of things, deciding what to do with them took effort, and he didn’t have much of that these days.

  What did he mean these days? Decisions had been hard to come by ever since he’d been shoved into a hellhole in a foreign country.

  Straightening, he stroked the tangle of sheet, blanket and coverlet, surprised that he’d been able to sleep. The puppies had only been a few weeks old when he’d found them on a lonely stretch of road that went through a Hopi reservation in Arizona. He’d brought them home. Because they’d needed feeding every two hours, it had made sense to have them sleep with him. Knowing what he now did, he would have given the decision more thought. Squirming puppies hogging the space on a king bed—a leftover from his marriage to Rachelle’s mother—was one thing. Having to fight for five square inches of room with three oversized mutts was another.