Chapter Twenty-Seven
The Texaco station off Highway 72 was a slick, modern structure terribly out of place against its desolate and timeworn surroundings. A teenaged boy in a cowboy hat leaned against his truck, arms crossed, waiting for the tank to fill. A middle-aged woman came out of the convenience store lugging two small kids and three bags filled with grocery items.
I parked off to the side and entered the station.
A heavy-set girl stood behind the counter: jet black hair with streaks of pink and purple, a silver hoop in one nostril and a tinier one through the eyebrow. Her expression was the picture of indifference. She was busy taking packs of cigarettes from a carton and plugging them into the spots above. She glared at me briefly, then threw the empty carton into the trash. Pulled out another, and went right back to work.
Service with a smile.
Nametag said she was Judy. Just the person I wanted to see, although the feeling didn’t appear to be mutual.
“I need directions,” I said, skipping the cordial greeting. Something told me Judy wasn’t a cordial-greeting kind of gal.
She stopped for a moment, looked me over from head to toe, then went back to working the smokes. “Where to?”
“I’m trying to find someone who lives around here. Guy by the name of Newsome.”
At this, Judy became somewhat more animated, but not in a good way; more like how someone might react when they realize the person next to them has passed gas.
“Flint?” she said, shoving the packs with more vigor now, as if they were the cause of her annoyance. She snickered. “Why would you wanna see him?”
I wanted to tell her it was none of her damned business, but I also needed her help. “Do you know where he lives?”
“He’s a big-time loser.”
“Can you tell me where he lives?” I repeated.
“Up the road, about seven miles or so. Right side, yellow trailer. Can’t miss it. Looks like it got hit by a bus. About three times.”
“Thanks, Judy. Sure appreciate the help,” I said. As I turned to leave, I couldn’t resist adding, “Gotta love that southern charm.”
I heard the word “asshole” mumbled as the door slammed behind me.
A real people person, that Judy.
Got in my car and headed up the road in search of a beat-up trailer, Flint Newsome, and hopefully, some missing answers.
A few miles later, I spotted the thing off in the distance. For all her attitude, Judy was right: it definitely looked like a bus had hit it a few times—not only that, but dumped and then abandoned. No road leading to it, just a dirt path. Seemed driveways were optional in this town. An old Lincoln Continental sat parked outside, its condition just as deplorable. The trailer sat on cinderblocks with old wooden apple crates serving as steps. I moved my gaze to the other side and spotted a lanky, rawboned dog tethered to a metal stake. He threatened me with a fierce sounding growl, low and throaty, which quickly erupted into a full-blown bark-fest. Looked like a cross between Rottweiler and Just Plain Mean.
I maneuvered my way around all the clutter. Amidst the piles of dried dog poop were rusted beer cans, empty TV dinner boxes, and various other odd pieces of debris. It appeared Flint liked to use his window as a trash can. As I neared the trailer, an increasingly ripe, rotting stench made my eyes water.
With each step I took, the dog’s barking increased in volume and intensity. He lunged toward me, dragging the rusty metal chain along with him. Then he began snarling, upper lip curled, yellow teeth exposed all the way to his gums. I stopped just a few feet beyond his reach and glanced at the trailer, hoping Newsome might look out to see what all the commotion was about.
Wasn’t going to happen—not even a hint of movement inside; in fact, no sign of him anywhere.
I weighed the risks. One bite could, in theory, cost me my life. All he had to do was break the skin, and I’d leak like a sieve. But I needed to talk to Newsome.
I thought it over some more, decided to go for it. I couldn’t let the dog come between Newsome and me. Now I just needed to figure out a plan to get past him. Alive.
Plan A: I gave Cujo a mean glare. It had zero effect. In fact, it just got him barking again.
Time for Plan B.
I moved toward the rear of the trailer in a wide, sweeping semicircle. The dog ran around his end to meet me there, but his chain twisted under one of the cinderblocks, grinding against it, then pulling him to an abrupt halt. He tried to jerk loose but couldn’t. Instead, he began to whimper.
“Nice doggie,” I said, then retraced my steps to the front of the trailer. The dog stayed behind—not out of choice, but out of necessity—and I could hear him growling and barking again, pissed off as hell, I was sure.
I climbed Newsome’s apple crates and gave the door a few hard and fast raps, all to no avail. I wondered if maybe he was passed out after a long night of hard drinking, so I peered through the sheer olive-green drapes hanging in the trailer door window.
And that’s when I realized something was terribly wrong.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
A brown cowboy boot. Sticking out of a doorway. Resting in a puddle of blood.
I placed my fingers around the outer edge of the knob and turned it carefully. Pushed the door open and quickly discovered that the rancid stench wasn’t just coming from his trash; it was coming from Newsome himself. I slammed the door, moved quickly toward my car.
At least, that was my plan, but the dog had other ideas. He’d somehow managed to pull the chain out from under the cinder block and was now barreling full bore toward me with a determined look falling somewhere between attack and mutilate. I tried to hightail it past him, but before I could, he knocked me to the ground.
Then sank his teeth into my leg. Hard. And hung on.
I panicked.
I couldn’t tell if he’d broken the skin, but if so, I’d have little time to get to a hospital. I’d been warned my whole life to stay away from dogs, from broken glass and sharp objects, from anything that could make me bleed. Other than the playground incident when I was young, I’d managed make it through without any problems—until now.
My pulse pounded in my head and my breathing accelerated times ten. I had to get the dog off my leg. The longer I allowed him to remain clamped to me, the worse I knew the injury could become and the less successful I’d be in stopping—or at least slowing down—the bleeding. I also knew that any resistance or sudden movement might only exacerbate the potential for further injury.
With his teeth bearing down, the pressure increasing, and my pain reaching an unbearable intensity, I looked around for something,
I was still breathing heavily with sweat dripping down my forehead and off my nose. I inspected my leg: my jeans were still intact with no holes. No sign of any blood, either. All good signs. With shaky hands, I pulled up my pant leg.
Then breathed a giant sigh of relief.
Four rounded bruise marks on both sides of my leg, but no breaks through the skin. No wounds. No blood.
I thanked myself for dressing that morning in the thick denim and heavy sweat socks that had most surely
