Boyd turned and did that now.
“Boyd, sit!”
Boyd spun and resumed barking.
Sarah McCranie’s arms tightened around her father. Her playmates watched me with saucer eyes.
I repeated my command.
Boyd twisted his head and did the eyebrow thing, this time with feeling:
“Boyd!” Keeping my left hand on my thigh, I leveled my right index finger at his snout.
Boyd canted his head, blew air out his nose, and sat.
“What’s wrong with him?” Katy was panting as hard as I was.
“Dork Brain probably thinks he’s discovered the lost colony from Roanoke.”
Boyd turned back to the hedge, flattened his ears, and drew a long, low growl from deep in his chest.
“What?”
Ignoring my daughter’s question, I picked my way through roots and undergrowth. When I drew close, Boyd shot to his feet and looked at me expectantly.
“Sit.”
Boyd sat.
I squatted beside him.
Boyd rocketed up, tail rigid and trembling.
My heart sank.
Boyd’s find was much larger than I’d expected. His last hit had been a squirrel, dead perhaps two or three days.
I looked at the chow. He returned my gaze, the large amount of white visible in each eye an indication of his agitation.
Refocusing on the mound at my feet, I began to share his apprehension. I picked up a stick and poked at the center. Plastic popped, then a stench like rotting meat rose from the leaves. Flies buzzed and darted, bodies iridescent in the sticky air.
Boyd, the self-taught cadaver dog, strikes again.
“Shit.”
“What?”
I heard rustling as Katy worked her way toward the chow and me.
“What did he find?” My daughter squatted beside me, then bounced to her feet as though tied to a bungee. A hand flew to her mouth. Boyd danced around her legs.
“What the hell is it?”
Palmer joined us.
“Something’s dead.” After that masterful observation Palmer squeezed his nostrils with a thumb and forefinger. “Human?”
“I’m not sure.” I pointed to semi-fleshed digits projecting from a tear Boyd had made in the plastic. “That’s definitely not a dog or deer.”
I probed the dimensions of the half-buried bag. “Not many other animals are this big.”
I scraped back dirt and leaves and examined the soil below.
“No evidence of fur.”
Boyd moved in for a sniff. I elbowed him back.
“Holy crap, Mom. Not at a picnic.”
“I didn’t will this here.” I flapped a hand at Boyd’s find.
“Are you going to have to do the whole ME bit?”
“This may be nothing. But on the outside chance it’s
Katy groaned.
“Look, I don’t like this any more than you do. I’m supposed to leave for the beach on Monday.”
“This is so embarrassing. Why can’t you be like other mothers? Why can’t you just”—she looked at Palmer, then back to me—“bake cookies?”
“I prefer Fig Newtons,” I snapped, rising to my feet. “Might be best to take the kids back,” I said to Sarah’s father.
“No!” the boy yelped. “It’s a dead guy, right? We want to see you dig up the DOA.” His face was flushed and glossy with perspiration. “We want to know who you like for the hit.”
