Hooch?”
Boyd looked at Ryan, went back to licking a rock.
“Ryan, we need to do something.”
“We are doing something.”
I cocked an eyebrow.
“We’re sweating.”
Katy would have been proud of the eye roll.
“And doing a damn fine job of it, considering this heat.”
“Let’s stroll Boyd past the hedge one more time, remind him what we’re looking for, then make a final sweep and call it a day.”
I put my hand down and Boyd licked it.
“Sounds like a plan,” said Ryan.
I wrapped the leash around my palm and yanked. Boyd looked up and twirled the eyebrow hairs, as though questioning the sanity of another sortie.
“I think he’s getting bored,” Ryan said.
“We’ll find him a squirrel.”
When Ryan and I set off, Boyd fell into step. We were weaving through the outbuildings at the back of the house, when the chow went into his “sniff-squirt-and-cover” routine.
Moseying up to a kudzu-shrouded shack, Boyd snuffled the earth, lifted a leg, took two forward steps, then kicked out with both back feet. Tail wagging, he repeated the maneuver, working his way along the foundation.
Sniff. Lift. Squirt. Step, step. Kick, kick.
Sniff. Lift. Squirt. Step, step. Kick, kick.
“Good rhythm,” said Ryan.
“Pure ballet.”
I was about to tug Boyd from the shed when his muscle tonus changed. His head and ears shot forward and his belly sucked up.
One beat.
Snout to the ground.
Another beat.
Muscles rigid, Boyd inhaled then exhaled through his nostrils, sending dead vegetation spiraling outward.
Then the dog went absolutely, utterly still.
A heartbeat. A lifetime.
Boyd’s ears flattened, his hackles rose, and an eerie sound crawled from his throat, more keening than growl.
The hairs on my neck went vertical. I’d heard it before.
Before I could speak, Boyd exploded. Lips curled, teeth gleaming, the keening gave way to frenzied barking.
“Easy, Boyd!”
The chow lunged forward and backward, delivering his threat from every angle.
I tightened my grip and braced both feet.
“Can you hold him?” I asked.
Without a word, Ryan took the leash.
Heart pounding, I circled the shed, searching for a door.
The radio crackled. Larabee said something.
I found the entrance on the south side, away from the house. Gingerly brushing back spiderwebs, I pulled on the handle.
The door wouldn’t budge.
I looked up and down along the frame. Two nails held the door in place. They looked new compared with the dry, flaky wood around them.
Boyd’s frenzy continued. Ryan held tight to the leash, calling “Hooch,” then “Boyd” to calm him.
Unfolding my Swiss army knife, I gouged out one nail, then the other.
Larabee’s voice sounded small and tinny on the radio, as though emanating from some alien star system.
I depressed the button and reported my position.
When I tried again, the door creaked open, and a fetid, earthy smell drifted out, like dead plants and garbage
