With that she turned and set off toward the morgue.
I'd rarely heard Primrose Hobbs curse.
Back in my room, I pulled out the chapter, flipped to Table IV, plugged in the measurements, and did the math.
The foot classified as American Indian.
I calculated again, using a second function.
Though closer to the cluster for African Americans, the foot still fell with the Native Americans.
George Adair was white, Jeremiah Mitchell was black. So much for the missing fisherman and the man who'd borrowed his neighbor's ax.
Unless he'd wandered back to the reservation, Daniel Wahnetah was looking like a match.
I checked my watch. Ten forty-five. Late enough.
The sheriff was not in. No. They would not phone her at home. No. They would not give out her pager number. Was this an emergency? They would relay the message that I had called.
Damn. Why hadn't I gotten Crowe's pager number?
For the next two hours I engaged in irrelevant activity, directed by the brain for tension relief rather than goal attainment. Behaviorists call it displacement.
Following a laundry session involving panties in the bathroom sink, I sorted and organized the contents of my briefcase, deleted temporary files from my laptop, balanced my checkbook, and rearranged Ruby's glass animal collection. I then phoned my daughter, sister, and estranged husband.
Pete did not answer, and I assumed he was still in Indiana. Katy did not answer, and I made no assumptions. Harry kept me on the phone for forty minutes. She was quitting her job, having trouble with her teeth, and dating a man named Alvin from Denton. Or was it Denton from Alvin?
I was testing the ring options on my phone when a strange baying arose from the yard, like a hound in a Bela Lugosi movie. Peering through the screen, I saw Boyd seated in the middle of his run, head thrown back, a wail rising from his throat.
“Boyd.”
He stopped howling and looked around. Far down the mountain I heard a siren.
“I'm up here.”
The dog stood and cocked his head, then the purple tongue slid out.
“Look up, boy.”
Reverse cock.
“Up!” I clapped my hands.
The chow spun, ran to the end of the pen, sat, and resumed his love song to the ambulance.
The first thing one notices on meeting Boyd is his disproportionately large head. It was becoming clear that the dog's cranial capacity was in no way related to the size of his intellect.
Grabbing jacket and leash, I headed out.
The temperature was still warm, but the sky was slowly filling with dark-centered clouds. Wind flapped my jacket and gusted leaves and pine needles across the gravel road.
This time we did the uphill lap first, Boyd charging ahead, huffing and coughing as the collar tightened across his larynx. He raced from tree to tree, sniffing and squirting, while I gazed into the valley below, each of us enjoying the mountain in our own way.
We'd gone perhaps a half mile when Boyd froze and his head shot up. The fur went stiff along his spine, his mouth half opened, and a growl rose from the back of his throat, a sound quite different from the siren display.
“What is it, boy?”
Ignoring my question, the dog lunged, ripping the leash from my grip, and charged into the woods.
“Boyd!”
I stamped my foot and rubbed my palm.
“Damn!”
I could hear him through the trees, barking like he was on scrap yard sentry duty.
“Boyd, come back here!”
The barking continued.
Cursing at least one creature that creepeth, I left the road and followed the noise. I found him ten yards in, dashing back and forth, yapping at the base of a white oak.
“Boyd!”
He continued running, barking, and snapping at the oak.
He skidded to a stop and looked in my direction.
Dogs have fixed facial musculature, making them incapable of expression. They cannot smile, frown, grimace, or sneer. Nevertheless, Boyd's eyebrows made a movement that clearly communicated his disbelief.
