pick her up. The Labrador yelped in pain and cowered back. His hand came away slick with blood and fur.
“Dad, don’t hurt her!” Finn cried. “Be careful!”
“She’s hurt,” Hank said. “She’s been in some kind of fight, I think.” Then, to the dog, “Here, Sadie, come. Come inside, girl.”
The Labrador looked fearfully behind her, and then scooted into the house, dragging her left leg behind her slightly as though it were broken, or sprained. Once inside, she collapsed on the floor beside the back door, lying on her side and breathing in shallow hitches.
Finn bent over her and gingerly explored her fur with his fingertips. His parents stood back as though they instinctively understood that their son was the authority in this case.
When he inhaled sharply, the sound he made releasing it reminded Anne of a punctured birthday party balloon. Both she and Hank leaned in to see what Finn was looking at.
Sadie was covered with bites. Finn counted two, three, four clumps of matted fur and blood along her thick neck and flanks. In those places, the fur had been torn away, exposing the ravaged pink flesh beneath. The bite marks were about two inches apart and, to Finn’s inexpert eye, looked deep and nasty.
“Mom, she’s been bitten all over,” Finn said, horrified. “She’s been in a fight with some animal or something. Look! It’s horrible. Sadie,” he crooned, petting her head. “It’s all right, girl, you’re home now. It’s OK. Shhhh, it’s OK.”
“Be careful, Finn,” Anne said. “She might be… well, whatever animal she fought with might have been rabid.”
“Rabies doesn’t work that way, Anne,” Hank said. “It’s not that fast acting. We’ll take her to the vet tomorrow and check her out. She’s had all of her shots this year, so she’ll be all right, I’m sure. Finn, see if you can get her to come upstairs where there’s some proper light. Anne, get the first aid box. It’s in the medicine cabinet. There’s some hydrogen peroxide there. At least we can clean these cuts and bites a little bit.”
“
“Hydrogen peroxide doesn’t hurt, Finn,” Anne said soothingly, putting her hand on his shoulder. “It’ll be fine, you’ll see. And in the morning, we’ll get her to the vet and get her checked out.”
Finn put his fingers in front of Sadie’s muzzle and rubbed his thumb against them, a familiar invitation to her to follow him, one that usually implied treats.
He heard the sound of Sadie’s tail thumping weakly against the floor before he saw it. Sadie rose shakily to her feet, tail swinging from side to side, and slowly followed Finn upstairs.
In the kitchen, Hank swabbed her bites with hydrogen peroxide. His wife and son noticed the gentleness with which he ministered to the injured dog, and it surprised even him, truth be told. It wouldn’t be till much later, when he was in bed with his wife sleeping next to him, that Hank Miller would weep his own tears of relief at Sadie’s return-modest tears, to be sure, because men didn’t cry, at least not in front of women and children, but he’d been a boy once, too, and he remembered what it was like to love a dog the way only a twelve-year-old boy really can.
Anne brought a crocheted afghan downstairs from the cedar chest in their bedroom and laid it on top of Sadie to keep her warm during the night. She kissed Sadie’s muzzle and said, “Good night, sweet dog.” Anne wiped her cheek with the back of her hand and stood up. She cleared her throat. “All right, Finn. Back to bed. Sadie will be all right here by the stove. In the morning, I’ll drive her over to the vet clinic right away, I promise.”
“Can I come, too?” Finn pleaded. “Please? Even if I miss the morning part of school? Please?”
“Of course you can, honey,” Anne said. “She’s your dog. She’d want you there.”
Hank turned off the overhead light. Sadie lay her head on her paws. Her breathing was still shallow, but it slowed as they stood in the doorway, then became deep and regular in peaceful sleep.
When Finn heard the sound of her leg twitching on the floor in the way it did when Sadie was dreaming of running, he sighed in relief and silently reassured God of his intention to honour his part of the deal he’d made, as long as God honoured His.
It was well after midnight by the time Elliot stopped at O’Toole’s on the way home from the police station. He needed a drink, but more importantly he was hoping for a chance to speak with Donna Lemieux and make things right. But the only person behind the bar tonight was a supremely pissed off Bill O’Toole, the owner.
“I don’t know where she is,” he fumed. “She didn’t open tonight, and she didn’t call. She won’t answer her goddamn telephone. I couldn’t get Molly to take her shift tonight because she’s off for the week visiting family in Wawa. So guess who that leaves? Me, the owner, washing glasses and tending bar. Well, we’ll see if she still has a job when she waltzes back in here. We’ll just
Elliot doubted very much that Bill O’Toole meant a fraction of what he was saying about firing Donna, who was the primary reason-besides the liquor-that men came to O’Toole’s in the first place.
“Maybe I’ll take a run by her place and make sure she’s all right,” Elliot said to Bill O’Toole, thinking to himself how unlike Donna it was to miss work. Sleep late, yes. Be pissed at Elliot, yes-take a number. But she wasn’t an irresponsible eighteen-year-old girl; she was a divorced adult woman with a carved-in-stone survivor’s work ethic.
Bill paused. The notion that anything could be wrong with Donna clearly hadn’t occurred to him. “You don’t think anything’s really the matter, do you?”
“Dunno, Bill, but it’s worth checking out,” Elliot said gruffly. “You didn’t go over there yourself, I take it?” Elliot knew full well that he hadn’t, and felt a flash of remorse that he was taking out his own guilt over last night on Bill O’Toole.”
“No, I just figured she… well, I don’t know what I figured. It’s not like Donna, is it, Elliot? You think she’s OK?”
“Tell you what, Bill,” he said. “I’ll check on her. If you don’t hear back from me, you can just assume that she’s under the weather. If something’s wrong, I’ll give you a call, I promise.”
Bill looked at Elliot with relief. “Good deal,” he said. He took a bottle out of the beer fridge behind him and proffered it. “One for the road, Elliot? On the house?”
Elliot shook his head. “Another time, Bill.” He winked. “I’ll let you know about Donna. I’m sure it’s nothing.”
When he pulled into Donna’s driveway, the first thing he saw was that the house was completely dark. Not even the porch light had been switched on, something Donna, like most people in Parr’s Landing, did reflexively once night fell. The house, set back from the street-ordinary in every possible way-tonight had the aspect of a cenotaph.
Elliot rang the doorbell. He heard the cling-clang of it on the other side of the door. Somewhere in the back region of the house, likely the kitchen, he heard what sounded like the plaintive mewling of a hungry cat. Elliot hated cats as a rule, but this one-Samantha-he had grown fond of over the course of his visits to Donna’s bedroom. Nice cat. Hungry, it sounded like. Donna would never, ever neglect feeding Samantha, whatever else she might or might not do.
The image of the bag of bloody knives and hammers from Spirit Rock suddenly flashed through Elliot’s mind in a crimson streak.
He reached for the doorknob and turned it. The door was unlocked and swung open. Switching on his flashlight, he played the beam over the empty living room. On the wall adjacent to the doorway, Elliot located the light switch and flicked it up and down. Nothing. He stepped over the threshold.
“Donna?” Elliot called out softly. “Donna, it’s me. It’s Elliot. Are you here?”
The darkness and silence seemed to mock him. The sound of Samantha’s mewling came from the next room, louder than before.
Elliot crossed the living room and stepped into the kitchen, his flashlight beam playing in front of him, picking up objects here and there without illuminating the room as a whole. The kitchen was immaculate, the sink dry. He tried the light switch on the wall. It was dead here, too.
He played his light along the floor. Samantha sat in front of the stove, silent now. Her eyes reflected back in the light of his flashlight. “Samantha,” Elliot whispered. “Where’s Donna?”
