Devil tolerated people but had little interest in them. Patrick might eventually prove to be an exception. When he praised the indifferent dog for good behavior, Kelsey had actually seen Devil’s ears perk and his tail thump a time or two.
“Is he going to be okay when I hop inside?”
“He should be, and he’s harnessed in.”
“How did you ever manage that?”
“He’s irritable but consenting.”
Keeping her movements calm and purposeful, Kelsey slid into the worn cloth passenger seat, feeling awed by the sheer volume of space Devil occupied behind her. He could tie a show pony in a shadow-making contest.
“So, can you please tell me where we’re headed? The suspense has just quadrupled.”
“Edwardsville.”
She waited, hoping Patrick would offer more explanation on his own. The truck interior smelled like dog breath, and she focused on breathing through her mouth. Devil was panting, his head was cocked, and he was eyeing her with big, brown eyes.
“What’s in Edwardsville?” she asked as Patrick merged onto the street.
“Devil’s old vet. The one who microchipped him.”
“I thought his microchip was a dead end.”
“It was.”
When it became clear he didn’t intend to add anything else—Patrick was a one-task-at-a-time guy, and now he was driving—Kelsey drew in a controlled breath. As soon as he stopped at a light, she blurted out, “So why are we going there now? What purpose do you think it’ll serve?”
“Devil is different from the other dogs.” Patrick drummed the steering wheel with his fingers. “Like I said before, he doesn’t want to connect with us. I don’t think he’s watching the door and staring out the window because he wants to guard the house. I think he’s looking for someone. Someone in particular.”
Kelsey frowned. “His first owner? Devil’s microchip wasn’t even registered. Who knows if the person who first adopted him kept him. Dogs his size often pass through a lot of homes. And the vet stopped treating him before he was a year old.”
“Yes, when his owner moved.”
When the light turned green and Patrick didn’t add to his train of thought, Kelsey determined she’d need to settle in for the forty-five-minute drive and learn his plan when they got there. With Devil’s panting and pervasive dog breath, and Patrick keeping to the speed limit but choosing to drive in the left lane since highway studies had determined it to incur the least number of accidents, the drive was close to torture.
She sent thanks to the heavens when they pulled into the veterinarian’s parking lot at ten minutes before five, with the office scheduled to close for the day at five.
Through the glass, Kelsey could see a woman leading a long-legged poodle toward the exit. Otherwise, the waiting room was empty.
“Will you go in ahead of me and tell them we have a socially challenged dog coming in? I’ll wait till you wave that the room is clear.”
“Sure, but what if they ask how come?”
Patrick’s forehead knotted in confusion. “A veterinarian’s office should understand that dogs who’ve been in fighting rings need an extended period of—”
Kelsey held up her hand. She’d figure it out when they got inside. “Okay, got you.” She passed the poodle and owner on the sidewalk and headed in. There were two people behind the desk, a guy and a girl. She gave them the heads-up Patrick had asked her to, but had no idea how to explain why they were here. Once Patrick was given the all clear, Devil hopped out of the back with more grace than Kelsey could’ve guessed.
The guy behind the desk huffed as he took in the sight of them through the large front window. With his massive head and giant body, Devil probably outweighed Patrick. The top of his head was just higher than Patrick’s navel.
Kelsey held the door as Patrick led Devil in, the leash short and secured with both hands. The lobby was clean, sparsely furnished, and smelled of astringent. The hair atop Devil’s haunches stood on end, but he seemed otherwise calm. He sniffed the air, and lines of drool started to form at the edges of his droopy jowls. He pricked his ears at a muffled bark coming from behind a set of swinging doors at the back of the building.
“How can we help you?” the guy behind the desk asked.
“This dog was microchipped here when he was ten months old. We’d like to get him home to his original owner.”
The girl popped up from her chair and pressed her palms flat on the counter. “Oh my God, is this him? Is he the guy they called about who was captured in that fighting ring? We don’t get dogs that size very often.”
“Yes, this is the dog,” Patrick replied. He dove into a Patrick-paced explanation of Devil’s behavior and how he felt that what the dog needed more than anything was to reconnect with someone he’d bonded with prior to his traumatic fighting time.
“Poor thing. Denise took the call. I heard about it later. We’d love to help get him home, but Denise said we don’t have a forwarding address or working phone number for his owner. She moved out of the area several years ago, and we only have her old address on file. The post office will no longer forward her mail either.”
“But you have a name.” Patrick followed this with an emphatic nod, as if that explained everything. He pulled a piece of paper from one of the pockets of his cargo pants. “This is the number of his chip.”
The girl turned toward her coworker. He gave her a light shake of his head. “You
