Disclaimer: These characters are not mine and I make no profit from them.
Author's Note: I haven't felt the urge to write ff in a while now, but this came to me while I was worrying about someone I know. I'm glad her story had a happy ending.
Shelter
by L.M. Lewis
The call came a little past six in the evening while Mark was busing the dinner dishes for Sarah. Only one ring—meaning Hardcastle had picked it up in the den.
Mark resisted the urge to drift in that direction. There wasn't any reason why he should—except that occasionally the after-hours phone calls involved mutual concerns, like bad guy-matters coming to a boil. It was good to stay informed.
He resisted, firmly, and set a plate and a handful of silverware down among the still-to-be-washed dishes. Maybe he'd done that a little firmly as well. Sarah gave him a penetrating glance. It didn't get any further than that before Hardcastle bustled into the room.
"Got company comin'. Sorry about the short notice, Sarah."
His housekeeper didn't look very put out, but her eyebrows rose slightly in measured surprise.
"That fire, north of Solstice, the wind's picking up and they're worried it might jump a ridge. They want to get folks out now while there's still light. They're sending us three families—ten folks, sounds like."
This got a sharp nod of understanding, as though Sarah knew the drill.
For McCormick there was a quick aside from the judge. "We're on the Red Cross list. Lots of folks don't want to evacuate if they'll have to go all the way into L.A. All these big houses around here, we all volunteer to take a few families each. It's been a while."
Sarah was already stowing dishes in the dishwasher—an unusual nod to convenience in the name of efficiency. "I'll need to make up the beds," she said, half to herself. "That'll be six adults, I presume, and the rest children?"
Hardcastle frowned slightly. "They didn't say—something like that, I guess."
Sarah straightened up suddenly and cast a look over her shoulder that took in Mark for just a moment and then settled on the judge. "Three families," she repeated with measured emphasis. "Only last time . . ."
The comment drifted into silence but Hardcastle appeared to have gotten her intent. All he gave it, though, was a shrug. "Well there's still the three bedrooms upstairs, one for each. The little kids can bunk with their folks and the older ones can camp in the den. They'll like that—probably stay up watching TV all night. It'll keep 'em from getting homesick."
Sarah cast another sidelong glance at Mark, then pursed her lips briefly before asking, "But what about you, Your Honor?"
He shrugged again casually. "I'll just stay in the gatehouse, same as the other time." With that he turned abruptly as he added, "Got a lot of stuff to do; they'll be here in an hour, maybe less."
And he was gone, presumably to rustle up spare blankets and secure the more breakable objects in the den. Mark broke off from staring at the space he'd just vacated and shifted his gaze to Sarah.
"When was the last time?"
"Oh," Sarah cocked her head slightly, "two years ago, I believe." Then her expression sharpened. "You might have offered to move into the gardener's trailer, you know."
"Why?" Mark said, and at her increasing look of exasperation he pointed out, "If he wants to kick me out all he has to do is do it. It's his house . . . both of 'em."
That was undeniable. Sarah sniffed and said, "He was being polite."
The sharp sound Mark made was not quite a guffaw but it was plenty impolite. Sarah was looking displeased, and he knew she was capable of generating a very long list of chores, even without ten guests to look after.
He corked the laugh and extinguished his grin. "I'll let him have the bed," he assured her, very politely.
"Of course you will," she sniffed again. "It's his bed."
00000
The hour passed swiftly, in a flurry of orders issued and carried out. Air mattresses were procured from storage places in the garage, and extra towels were set out in the spare rooms.
Mark only paused for a moment, while carrying Hardcastle's satchel over to the gatehouse, and glanced up. It might have been his imagination, or maybe the lights from Sherman Oaks and Calabasas, but he thought he saw a hint of a glow over the hills to the northeast.
Nonsense, he assured himself. This was all just a precaution and, anyway, the areas in question were a couple mile up into the hills. Obviously the authorities wouldn't be sending people somewhere that wasn't safe.
He nudged the gatehouse door open and edged in. The lights were out and there was no sign of Hardcastle having taken up residence yet. Of course not, he'd still be preoccupied with his job as host. A stab of light traced across the opposite wall. Mark turned and saw the source, a vehicle pulling in by the fountain.
He still took the suitcase all the way up to the loft bedroom, per his promise to Sarah. Then he trotted back down the stairs, intending to make himself available for further duties. When he stepped outside he got a better look at what was parked there: an emergency services utility van. Two men had apparently arrived in it and were now in conference with the judge out on the driveway.
One of the newcomers wore a hardhat and a windbreaker. The other looked less prepared for a natural disaster, with his dark suit and a vaguely briefcase-shaped shadow down at his side. It was this man who was leaning in, speaking intently to the judge. Mark could only hear snatches from where he stood.
" . . . ought to have informed us . . . change of status . . . felon."
That last word had been exceptionally clear and made him halt in his steps, still far enough off to not have been noticed.
Hardcastle's response was in a low-pitched rumble. No individual words were distinguishable. Whatever he said, it appeared to mollify at least the hard-hatted man who was shrugging as he gestured back toward the drive and the gate.
More headlights. Mark shielded his eyes slightly but there was nothing to be made out except that there were four sets. He presumed it was the three families and their escort. He stepped back in among the shadows, hoping this wouldn't be mistaken as some sort of felonious behavior. He wasn't sure why he should give a damn about that—they would think whatever they wanted.
All notions of stepping up and assisting with the luggage had vanished. Heaven help him if a refugee's Rolex turned up missing. He ducked back into the gatehouse and stood there for a moment, leaning against the wall. He was surprised at just how angry he was. It wasn't as if this were anything new.
You're just not used to it anymore.
The sudden insight was jarring, but he recognized it for the truth almost at once. The past month at Gulls Way might have involved way too many close calls, but in some ways he'd been in a cocoon. When the judge made the occasional pointed remark it was always very pointed—no generalized assumptions there at all. And as long he was in Hardcastle's company—doing Hardcastle's bidding—nearly everyone else accepted him.
He let out the breath he'd been holding. Okay then, back to business as usual. He supposed the word would get around to the guests. Rumors tended to spread fast in high-pressure situations. He'd just stay out of the way as much as possible. Presumably it would only be a day or two before they moved home, or on to a more permanent refuge.
He detached himself from the wall. He supposed he owed Hardcastle a clean set of sheets and a towel. Sarah would say so, at least. He might even throw a sheet on the sofa for himself, though he hardly felt like it was worth the effort.
He'd barely finished those tasks when he heard a familiar tread at the doorstep, and a grumbled greeting, "Where'd ya get off to? Shoulda figured you'd be out here, doggin' it."
"'Dogging'?" Mark managed a degree of archness despite his flat mood. "I'll have you know I put a hostess soap in the bathroom." He shifted smoothly, "How's things up at the Gull's Way Bed and Breakfast?"
Hardcastle waggled a hand and dropped wearily into a chair. "They're a little tense."
Mark nodded at this. "I can imagine. The fire."
"Well," Hardcastle cast a glance to the side, in a way that suggested that was not the only hot button topic at hand, "might be something that idiot county supervisor said."
"He was a supervisor?" Mark straightened up a little. "I rated one of those?"
"You heard, huh?" the judge said glumly.
"Well, just enough. So he warned those folks off, too."
"He said it was his civic duty," Hardcastle hmmphed. "And of course they were here already, and all he could offer them as an alternative was a ride down to a school gymnasium in Santa Monica."
"And they decided to check in to the Bate's Motel after all, huh?"
"I liked 'The Gulls Way B&B' better," Hardcastle admitted. "Had a nice homey ring to it."
"It's your fault, you know," Mark said. "You didn't update your information with the Red Cross or whatever."
"Update?" The judge looked indignant.
"Yeah, us felons always have to do that—let the P.O know when we've moved. Why not you felon harborers?"
"Ex-felon."
"Tell that to the supervisor," Mark snapped. He felt a twinge of regret almost as soon as it was out. He hadn't heard what Hardcastle has said to the man, but he suspected the judge had tried to explain the difference already. "Sorry," he sighed. "And I don't even have the fire as an excuse. But don't worry, I'll stay out of the way."
"Shirk your chores, you mean," Hardcastle grumped.
00000
Mark slept badly. He might have tried to blame it on the couch, but he'd slept better on worse surfaces by far, so he was inclined to chalk it up to the circumstances. Either way, it was about the darkest of pre-dawns by the time he finally gave up trying.
Having never bothered to get undressed the night before, he wasn't much inclined to change clothes that morning. Instead he thought he might sneak over to the main house and liberate some cereal and milk. It might be his last chance to do so before the company was up and about.
A good plan, but Sarah had beaten even his course time. He found her sitting at the kitchen table, sipping a well-crafted cup of tea and looking serene. She kept her voice down as she made the usual polite inquiries, and he answered them in an even lower tone.
She didn't question his early rising and eagerness to keep a low profile. It seemed unlikely that she'd missed any of the previous evening's undercurrents. Instead, she rose quietly and got out the fixings of a proper breakfast, something she was undoubtedly planning to do on a much larger scale in an hour or two.
But now, and just for him, it was a pot of coffee put to drip, two eggs, sunny side up, toast, and four sausage links. He knew better than to argue with Sarah's notion of a morning meal, even when he wasn't particularly hungry. He might get his appetite back later on, when she had him digging some ditch or toting some bale or another.
To his surprise, though, the meal did not conclude with a detailed list of instructions. Maybe she was distracted, although she didn't seem to be—more pensive. His dismissal was nothing more than a slight shake of her head when he offered to do his own dishes.
And having been dismissed, he departed, stepping out into the first morning light. He gave the pool a desultory skimming, more from habit than conviction. It seemed like a pretty frivolous activity under the circumstances—too frivolous to be considered a chore.
He stowed the skimmer and pondered his next move. He doubted that Hardcastle would be inviting him to shoot hoops this morning—too noisy, too high-profile. He was strolling up the back drive toward the rose garden when a movement off to the left caught his eye.
It was someone in front of the house by the fountain. A fairly young someone—thirteen, tops, he'd have wagered. The girl was slipping furtively between two of the cars parked there. She lacked only a coat hanger to look really felonious, and it was inevitable that one of her many glances around would take in McCormick.
Having spotted him watching her, she froze, and then just as suddenly popped open the door to one of the sedans, a nice sensible Volvo 240, and scooted into the driver's seat. Mark hustled, all intentions of keeping a low profile evaporating when he'd caught the look of desperation on that face. It was an expression that he instinctively associated with reckless behavior.
She was still fumbling with the keys when he arrived, though admittedly he'd moved pretty fast and she might have been hampered by tears. She didn't put up much of a fight as he took charge of the key ring and only sat there sullenly after he'd captured them.
There was a moment of awkward silence, and then he speculated mildly, "Leave something behind?"
It had only been a casual speculation. He'd hardly expected the dam-burst of sobbing from the girl, who suddenly seemed a lot younger.
"Ah, I didn't mean . . ." He bit down on whatever ineffectual thing he'd been about to say. None of it seemed to be getting through anyway. He patted his pockets for a handkerchief, or even a work rag—no such luck. The sobs were slowing down, little staccato spasms now. "What was it?" he ventured cautiously.
He thought maybe they were back to sullen, but she shot him a look of misery and gulped out, between sobs, "Rusty."
Well, unless she kept a cowboy on the family spread, that sounded like a pet. Mark guessed a dog. He frowned slightly and glanced over his shoulder toward the hazy northern sky, then back at the girl.
"He ran off. He gets scared. Mom was mad because I let him get out." All this had come in little bursts, framed by the last few hiccoughing sobs.
Mark resisted the urge to produce a few platitudes. He wasn't even sure what species they were discussing. Not a goldfish, obviously, but Californians kept some pretty weird pets. "What w—" he stumbled on the tense and substituted a quick and emphatic "is he?"
To his relief, the question didn't provoke another outburst of tears, just a deeply heaved sigh.
"Mom says he's just a mutt." It was obviously an insult being quoted directly.
One mystery solved but another one partly revealed. After all, it hadn't seemed as if the evacuation had been so hasty that it required abandoning the family pooch.
"Your mom's not too crazy about him, huh?"
The girl shook her head and took in a jerky sniff. There was obviously something more to it than muddy paw prints on the couch. "'Cause he's from dad."
Mark had a sudden and deep intuition that the giver of the dog wasn't a current guest at Gulls Way, but a half-knowing "Ahh" was all he managed to get out before the dam overflowed again—this time with a surge of quiet intensity.
"He's just a puppy, well, not exactly a puppy, and after Ginger died, mom said we could get another dog but I didn't want one, see?"
Mark saw, sort of—a dim view of life up in the canyon: riding lessons and an endless succession of red setters. He nodded. The only question was where the divorce fit into the timeline.
"But after dad moved out I told him I changed my mind." She shot a little look of guilt up at Mark, as though she might have known there were worms in that can before she'd opened it. "And, well, he got me Rusty."
"A setter?"
She nodded at his perspicacity. "We live up on Vista Road—everybody's left. He's gonna be scared. He's only eight months old."
Mark frowned. "How old is that in people? Can he take care of himself and all that?"
"Mostly. I mean he looks pretty grown-up, but he still acts goofy sometimes."
Mark felt a sudden kinship with the canine in question. And now that dawn had truly broken, there was a disturbing haze to the air. He tried to put the best spin on things.
"Well, dogs aren't stupid. He won't hang around up there if it gets hot. And somebody's bound to find him."
He felt a sudden coolness from the girl in the car. He realized belatedly that she must have heard all this before, probably on the drive down to the estate. He started to backtrack with a hasty "But—"
He got no further than that when an older female voice interrupted him in an anxious rising tone. "Jenny?"
Mark glanced down and stepped back from the car. Too late—they'd already been spotted and another deeply heaved sigh from the kid in the car assured him that she was the Jennifer in question. The woman had seen her, too, and was headed for them at a brisk pace, looking unhappy.
"Jennifer? What on earth—?"
She was interrupted by a slightly drawn out and emphatic, "Mom."
Mark eased back further still. The woman stepped protectively into the breach, casting a wary glance his way before focusing again on her daughter. "I was looking for you—"
"I thought maybe I left my math book out here," the girl said. "Guess not."
Mark had to admire the rapidly assembled alibi, while recognizing an element of revenge on him for foiling her plans, since it did nothing to explain why he was out here, hovering over little Jennifer. He felt her mother's attention shift back to him and he became suddenly aware of an utterly inexplicable set of car keys clutched, so far invisibly, in his left fist.
Amazingly, social conventions held things at an impasse. He didn't think such things worked where ex-cons were concerned. He was mighty glad, though, to hear Hardcastle's gruff summons.
"McCormick?"
No rising tone of anxiety there, just the judge wondering where the hell his hired hand was. Hardcastle hove into view around the corner of the gatehouse, and appeared to be taking in the whole tableau with a single riveted glance. There wasn't even a pause before assumed a position: his hands on his hips.
"There you are. You'd better go grab some chow. Sarah's probably gonna have some errands for you."
Mark sidled away, with only a quick nod and no attempt to smile at Jennifer's obviously still unhappy mom. He ducked around the far side of the car and with a quickening pace closed the distance between himself and the judge. He leaned in as he passed, while trying to look as though he were just avoiding a bush on the opposite side.
"Here," he said, in a voice both lower and more penetrating than a whisper, "I'll explain later."
He wasn't sure where the impulse had come from, either. "Lose the evidence" was a perfectly sound proposition, but if anyone had suggested a month ago that he'd pass something like that off to the judge, he would have called the idea loony.
But sometime in the past few weeks there's been some subtle shift. It might have been Hardcastle not having him tossed back in Q after he'd found Teddy Hollins had been holed up in the gatehouse, or maybe it had been when he himself had explained to Teddy that the judge could be trusted.
Either way, or neither, there was no backing out now. He'd slipped the keys into Hardcastle's jacket pocket with a bit of unobtrusive sleight-of-hand. He caught just a slight rise of the judge's eyebrow and saw him plunge his hand into the same pocket a moment later. The eyebrow might have risen a notch more but the man still said nothing. He just turned and waved casually to Jennifer's mom with his free hand as she shepherded her daughter back up to the main house. Then he hustled to catch up with them.
Fine for him, no stop-and-search without any probable cause other than a previous record, and, in any regard, no explanation necessary beyond, "I found these out on the lawn." At least Mark hoped that would be what he was going to say. And who knew what that kid would have come up with, if her back had been to the wall?
He frowned and tried to subdue an annoying itch right between his shoulder blades, just where a target would be. So much for keeping a low profile. He shook his head once and sauntered back down the drive toward the rear of the main house. It was clear daylight now and the judge was right: Sarah would undoubtedly have thought up something for him to do by now.
He took the steps up to the kitchen door slowly, trying to get the first glimpse in before he's ascended into full view. The cost looked clear, though Sarah was in full cooking mode, with pans on all burners and a pancake turner in her hand.
Mark opened the door, still cautious. She looked up only briefly as he entered.
"Hardcastle said you'd need me."
She levered more pancakes onto a platter. "The company has been watching the television. They tell me there's another fire started along Latigo Canyon Road." She glanced up again, looking at the cooking supplies she'd marshaled on the table. "More people being moved around by the authorities. There's going to be a run on milk."
She said this with the certainty of experience. Mark had no reason to doubt her. It was one of those things people liked to stock up on in times of trouble. He nodded.
"Two gallons ought to do for now, I think," she added. "If you can't get it at the market, you might have to go down into Santa Monica."
"Anything else?"
Sarah pursed her lips in concentration and said, "Eggs. Three dozen I think. A ham, five pounds of russet potatoes—"
Mark reached for a pencil and the notepad by the phone.
"—green beans, two pounds should do, and something for lunch."
"Pizza?" Mark suggested. "It'd be easy, and everybody likes it."
"I suppose," she said, but there'd been just a hint of something in her tone that suggested the refugees weren't all that easy to please. Nerves, maybe.
"You can go out and get that later. Off with you," she said mildly as she made a shooing motion with one hand.
He scooted, leaving her to deal with the anxious and unhappy company. On account of the shopping list he chose the judge's old truck as his transportation, and he didn't bother to hunt down the man to tell him. Low profile was his new mantra.
The drive down to the market was relatively uneventful except for an unusual amount of traffic on the PCH, much of which consisted of TV news vans. The parking lot at the store was at capacity, too. He had to wait for a woman to vacate a spot at the outer edge.
This didn't bode well for the milk supply, and he wasn't surprised to find the cooler stripped bare, as though by a band of lactose tolerant Viking plunderers. He briefly considered bringing home a case of evaporated milk and a can opener, but he didn't think he could withstand the withering look he'd get from their housekeeper.
He sighed and shoved off to round up the rest of the items she'd requested. He got a cold stare from an older woman as he grabbed very nearly the last three cartons of eggs.
"Not hoarding," he said in apology. "Feeding refugees. They need a lot of protein."
She didn't look as if she believed him. She reached by to snatch up the last box before he could add it to his spoils, never letting loose of the hold on her cart.
He joined the throng forming ragged lines that stretched down into the aisles and wondered whether Santa Monica or Oxnard would be a better bet for dairy products. Eventually he made it to the weary checkout girl who glanced with thinly-concealed disdain at the evidence of his egg-hoarding habits. He kept his explanation to himself this time.
He finally made it out of the lot and back onto the road, turning south mostly because it was easier from that side of the highway. He drove past the estate, not bothering to drop off what he had so far. He hoped the milk panic hadn't spread all the way into town through some sort of domino effect.
His anxiety was relieved at the first Ralphs he encountered. The lot was only a little more crowded than he would have expected, and he was able to add two gallons to his troll-like stash with no further evil looks.
"You're up by the fire," was all the bored clerk said, snapping his gum and ringing up the items.
Mark didn't bother to acknowledge the obvious. He forked over the cash and took his two jugs. He got everything situated in the truck, checking his watch nervously. He'd barely make it back in time to head out again and fetch the pizza.
On the other hand, Sarah's choice of tasks had done admirably well for getting him out of sight for the better part of the morning. He half-wondered if she hadn't heard more than he'd thought from the company on the subject of sharing their quarters with a known criminal.
He squashed that thought down as he navigated back along the PCH. But that thought might have still been there, curled like the serpent of temptation in among his motives, when he approached the Latigo Canyon Road. He slowed. His mental map of the area was pretty good, assisted by a few times he'd taken the Coyote up that way, seeking the switchbacks as a means of testing its limits.
Vista would be up a ways, off to the right, a dead-end road. If another fire had started further up still, the homes—and anyone left there—could be caught in a pincher between the new blaze and the one on the other side of the ridge. Nowhere to run
There was a haze to the air and a steady hot breeze down from the north, but things were otherwise calm right here. It wouldn't hurt to drive up that way a bit. Heck, maybe he'd find the dog, stumping along looking for his lost girl. He wished he'd bought some cube steaks instead of just the ham, but setters were pretty friendly, he thought. He turned right and headed up into the canyon.
To his surprise, he encountered no authorities. Whatever forces had been marshaled to fight the blazes were already up there in the hills doing their best, and the police had to be fully occupied with further evacuations in other quarters. All he saw, when he made his next turn onto a smaller road, was a hastily erected sign stating that the area was under an evacuation advisement.
He paused for a moment. Going forward from here might easily be on the list of proscribed activities for a parolee. It was a long list and he'd never seen the whole thing in print. Hell, for all he knew egg hoarding was on there somewhere.
He frowned at his own caution and made a quick compromise. He'd continue on up the road no more than a mile—just beyond the first couple of turns and presumably past most of the houses. He'd even get out and whistle a couple of times. If that didn't summon up Rusty, he'd stop off in town by the shelter and make inquiries when he went to get the pizza. Most likely the place was swamped, but he would be able to tell the girl he'd tried.
With this settled to his satisfaction, he maneuvered around the sign and over the Rubicon. There was haze and heat, but no actual smoke yet. Still, he hadn't even got to the half-mile point when he saw something that made him jerk the truck to a halt.
It was Jennifer, no doubt, leading—or being led by—a frisky, large-pawed setter who seemed to think they were out for a jaunt. If he'd been traumatized by his abandonment, it was hard to spot. Mark opened his door. The girl was trying to keep Rusty from bolting off. She seemed surprised to see she had company.
"You found him," Mark said, avoiding the less promising conversation that began, 'How the hell did you get up here?' After all, he was there, too. It didn't seem fair to start chucking stones around.
She was smiling. It was the first time he'd seen her with anything but a sullen expression on her face and the change was a big improvement.
"Well," Mark scratched his head, "him in the back and you in the front, I think. Should we trust him with the ham?"
She looked doubtful.
"Okay, maybe both of you in the front. How dirty is he?"
"Pretty bad," she admitted, "but I'll wash your truck; promise." She crisscrossed her heart and almost lost her grip on the rope that was her makeshift leash.
It didn't matter. Rusty was all for the vehicle and its interesting smells. Between the two of them he was corralled and boosted into the cab of the truck.
They were underway again, after a three-point turn in the driveway of a deserted home. Mark was inclined to make the trip back faster, even if it cost a couple of eggs. There was an acrid bite to the air, and here and there a dusting of ash he hadn't noticed before. Even Rusty seemed a little more sober, leaning his chin against Mark's arm.
"Wait!" It was Jennifer, silent during the maneuvering but now reaching across Rusty to tug at his sleeve.
"What now?" He hadn't gotten up to speed, and a tap on the brake slowed them to a crawl, but he wasn't stopping without probable cause.
"There, look." She pointed, off to the right of the truck and down. He couldn't see anything from his vantage as he crept on. "Oh, stop. It's another one."
"Another what?"
She had her door open and was ready to jump out, so not stopping was no longer an option. "A dog," she said. "It must be hurt."
He put the truck in park and climbed out on his own side, holding Rusty in with one hand until he had the door half shut. "Stay," he groused. The dog look hurt by his lack of faith.
He cut around the back of the truck, in the direction he'd seen her head. She was down in the narrow gravel ditch off to one side making cooing, persuasive sounds with her hand held out. She probably needn't have bothered. The walls of rock the road cut through at this point wouldn't have permitted even a timid animal to retreat.
This one, he could see now, was in no shape to evade them anyway. Medium-sized, some sort of mixed breed with pointed nose and ears, and those looked singed. It was holding one paw off the ground, even in the cowering crouch it had assumed.
"Do you know it? Does it belong to one of the neighbors?"
She shook her head and hunkered down, moving in a little closer.
"Be careful. It might be a stray," Mark said, and seeing that have no effect, he turned toward the truck and grabbed a heavy blanket out of the back—the one Hardcastle kept there for various emergencies. "Out of the way. Let me get him."
She looked up and then stood slowly, and stepped back. The animal must've been in worse shape than it'd let on. Mark enveloped it in the blanket in one quick move and heard no more than a low, fearful howl.
"Sorry kiddo," he said. "It'll be okay. Ten minutes, tops, I promise."
The howl stopped. It had probably required more energy than the dog possessed. He wrapped the blanket around it firmly.
"Think you can manage this?" he asked the girl.
She nodded swiftly and clambered back into her side of the truck, opening her arms to receive the package. Rusty stuck his nose in the middle of everything and finally had to be scolded into brief submission. The blanket and its contents were handed over. The dog inside was no longer struggling much and Mark hoped that wasn't a bad sign.
He trotted around quickly to the driver's side and scrambled in. There was no more talk. He got the truck in gear and took the down hill run at the fastest speed compatible with getting home alive. One more panting howl from within the blanket was heartening but weak. He briefly considered going directly to a vet, but didn't know any off-hand. Home it was. Hardcastle had grown up on a farm, hadn't he? He probably knew all about dogs and goats and chickens. It made sense.
On some higher level, one step removed from injured dogs and ash sifting down around him, he realized he was panicking. On another, once removed even from all that, he realized he'd made a serious miscalculation.
This last discovery came as he was pulling in the drive, home free, or so his panicky lower level would have thought. But, no, the black and white in the drive, the cluster of people, some gathered around Jennifer's mom, all of that spelled out "TURN BACK" more clearly than any of the signs up in Latigo Canyon had done.
Too late this time. Besides, someone had spotted Jennifer, sitting right there beside him, and the people moving toward the truck included two cops. He put the truck in park, carefully. Rusty was barking. It was a friendly, "Honey, I'm home," bark but it added to the confusion. Mark thought he'd heard one of the cops say, "Let the girl go and step away from the car."
He motioned to Rusty to stay put and behave just this once, and, not trusting that, he cinched the end of the leash around the steering wheel. Jennifer hadn't moved, of course, still being responsible for the bundle.
Now there was a cop at the driver's side and his expression was not unlike that of the lady by the egg display that morning. Mark kept both hands up where the guy could see them and the door was finally opened from the outside.
"Here," the cop said, "up against the truck. Arms and legs out."
As if he didn't know how to assume the position. He almost shook his head in disgust but he suspected some of this was on account of there being an audience of appreciative citizens expecting to see duty done.
His head was pushed down against the hood and the frisking was done with no regards for his dignity, but the cuffs hadn't yet been applied yet. He heard Jennifer, her mother, and a man—presumably the step-dad, though maybe this would be one of those Disney films where the folks get back together in the final reel. They were having a discussion that he just knew under other circumstances would have been an argument. He wondered if Jennifer was still clutching the blanket, in which case he hoped the dog could breathe.
And over all this he finally heard what he realized he'd been listening for all along.
"Dammit, what the hell is going on here?"
It was Hardcase. He'd probably been inside, setting up a command post or something like that. Mark couldn't see him; when he tried to lift his head to look, the cop straight-armed him back down. His partner was doing the talking.
"The mom here says this guy was hanging around her daughter this morning—wasn't even light out yet. When the girl went missing, this was the first one she mentioned. Ex-con and all," he added.
He might have slowed down a little at the end but he sound pretty certain that he'd laid it all out in an obvious way. Mark heard nothing but silence—no protests on his behalf—in the moment that followed.
In fact it was only several seconds—despite it feeling otherwise to him, with his left cheek pressed down against the hood of the truck. And when the judge spoke again he seemed astonishingly calm.
"Maybe we oughta hear what the young lady has to say about it," he drawled.
Maybe not, Mark thought, in silent panic. Assuming the mantle of victimhood could get a kid solid dog-owning rights, maybe even a pony thrown into the deal.
Too late for telepathy, and he never knew what wavelength the judge was on, anyway. The girl had already begun to speak, though the first thing out of her was a half-choked sob that sounded especially sincere.
"All I wanted to do was make sure Rusty was safe."
Mark didn't think it was his imagination; the cop above him was leaning a little harder. It's not every day that you get to bust Mr. Stranger Danger.
"I know I shouldn't have—"
"It'll be all right, dear." That was the mom, and it was starting to sound like a pony and a kitten, and a trip to Disneyland.
"And I dunno how I would've got Rusty all the way back. He hates leashes."
There was a confirmatory yelp from inside the truck where the dog was still in custody.
"So," the judge slipped back into the conversation, "you were walking back with him?"
The answer must have been a nod.
"And how'dja get up there in the first place?"
A moment's hesitation and then she finally blurted out, "He wouldn't let me take mom's car this morning, so as soon as everybody was eating breakfast I snuck out again and started walking. It's not that far."
The hand on his neck eased up just a little. Mark raised his head warily, not wanting to risk getting it slammed down again. He could see them over on the opposite side of the truck—Jennifer clutching her bundle, her mother, still angry, and a tall, impatient-looking man, undoubtedly the step-dad, who looked as if he'd rather be up in the hills beating the flames with a wet canvas sack.
The mother wouldn't be dissuaded from her worst fears quite that easily, though. "He could have threatened her if she told the truth."
"McCormick?" Hardcastle said in disbelief. The single word of exasperation seemed to say it all, but he followed it up with, "Look, lady, I know you folks are all under a lot of stress here, but I want you to consider one thing. If there's been some kind of kidnapping, why the hell would he have come back with your kid, and her dog, and—"
There was some movement within the blanket Jennifer still held tight to her chest, and that was followed by a piteous low howl.
"—her other dog," the judge finished awkwardly.
"What—"
"He's just a puppy, I think," Jennifer got one arm more steadily around her burden and tugged at the edge of the wrappings, "and he's hurt. He got burned—his ears and—"
"So nothing happened?" The one cop whispered to his partner. "Aren't we busting this guy for anything?"
"Not today," the judge barked sharply.
Mark felt the oppressive grip give way so suddenly that he almost lost his balance. Then the cops were edging over, along with nearly everyone else, to get a closer look at the fire victim. There were small sympathetic sounds from some of the women, though Jennifer's mom wasn't one of them.
"We found him by the side of the road on the way back. She spotted him," Mark offered in explanation to the judge. "I don't even know what kind it is."
The judge was leaning in, giving the singed ears and their owner a considering look. "Looks maybe four-five months old. A little late in the season."
"Late for what?"
"Late for a coyote. I'm just guessing, but look at the markings and the eyes. But they only have their pups in the spring. Might be part dog; that happens." His expression deepened to a near-frown. "Won't be able to reach anybody from animal control—they're swamped."
Jennifer looked up anxiously and gasped, "Animal Control—you mean like dog catchers?" She looked up at her mom pleadingly. "I found him. And he's hurt."
"You heard the man, Jenny," her mother said, distracted at last from her other concerns by this more immediate threat, "it's a wild animal—a coyote. They're dangerous."
"Not this one; he's really sweet. He didn't try to bite or anything."
"Kinda irrelevant right now." Hardcastle scratched the side of his nose. "The little guy needs a place to stay and it looks like this is it, at least until he's rested up and—"
"So I can take care of him?" the girl's smile blossomed. "I will, I promise. Please, Mom?"
"We don't even know if it's had its shots."
"I picked it up," Mark interjected. "I'm responsible." He reached for the blanket and its weary occupant.
"But—"
"Your mom's right. We don't know where it came from or even what it is."
Jennifer's mother looked grateful for the unexpected support. Her daughter seemed crestfallen but released the bundle reluctantly.
The others were starting to wander off, Jennifer's step-dad among them. The radio in the squad car squawked distantly and one of the cops turned to answer it.
"Maybe a box to sleep in, in the garage," Mark mused, half to himself.
The judge nodded. "Sounds like a plan."
Jennifer hadn't given up yet. "I could help with that. You'll need rags, and we ought to clean up the burned spots."
"Ask Sarah," Hardcastle advised her. "Tell her I sent you."
The girl nodded brightly. She leaned back into the truck, unsnagging Rusty's leash and taking off at a half-trot with him loping cheerfully at her side. Her mother offered no objection as she turned with a look of bemusement and followed.
The black and white was pulling away to deal with some new emergency, with no more than a nod from the driver to Hardcastle. The crowd had dispersed completely, leaving only the judge, and Mark, and a creature of indeterminate species.
"Got a box?" Mark asked.
"I thought you just went out for milk," Hardcastle said, with a dyspeptic look at the younger man.
"Oh," Mark looked up sharply and then cast a sideward glance into the bed of the truck, where the bags lay jumbled.
Hardcastle shrugged. "Never mind. Probably need some hamburger anyway. I'll run in and pick some more up later."
"Not in Malibu you won't. Santa Monica, maybe."
Having reached the garage, he stood aside while the judge rustled up a suitably-sized box and some cleanish rags. Once that was assembled, Mark crouched down and nestled the creature—blanket and all—into it, then loosened the swaddling slowly, with all due caution.
He needn't have worried. The little guy lifted his chin and sniffed his surroundings but didn't nip or struggle. His head sank down after a moment, though he still kept a wary eye on things.
"You think he'll be all right?" Mark asked, hazarding a gentle riffle of what fur wasn't frizzled from the fire.
Hardcastle stuffed his hands in his pockets, looking down judiciously. "I think so. I got a buddy—his son's a vet up in Westlake. Probably won't be able to get through to there until tomorrow, though." He rocked back on his heels slightly, and then, out of nowhere, said, "I know why she went up there, but—"
"It was an impulse, okay?" Mark replied sharply.
He felt himself flushing and realized he'd overreacted. He thought it might have been a delayed effect of the thing out front with the cop, maybe to the whole day—not to mention the evening before.
"Look," he said, trying for a more neutral tone that would give what he had to say some credence, "half the time I don't even know why I do things, so you can't expect me to explain 'em to you. I was going by the canyon road coming home and I thought I'd take a look, that's all. I wasn't expecting to run into her."
There was a second or two of silence. Mark wondered if he'd left something out. An expected apology, probably. He opened his mouth to speak again but heard judge clear his throat and claim the right-of-way.
"Just thought it was a nice thing to do," Hardcastle muttered. "Dumb . . . but nice."
Mark felt a brief cold shiver despite the heavy, hot air. His life—or at least his freedom—had been in the hands of a thirteen-year-old girl who might have really wanted a pony. He wasn't sure if he was a good judge of character, or just damn lucky.
He petted the victim absentmindedly. His gaze suddenly became more focused and he glanced up at the judge with a worried frown. "Sarah likes dogs, doesn't she?" His frown deepened. "And what about coyotes?"