Chapter 6

When Walt gets out of the truck, he's looking a lot more like his regular self in his coat and cowboy hat. He doesn't undermine my authority by coming over to where I'm waiting for dumbass, who's back on the phone, and I appreciate that. Stone is giving Walt a matter-of-fact rundown of their previous dealings with this place when I walk up.

"Didn't think we could handle it, huh?" I say to him, knowing it's coming off as more offended than I feel.

"Vic," he says, in greeting.

I cross my arms, cock my hip, and look up at him.

"I was passing by and saw Ferg's car so I thought I'd stop," he says.

"Really? You were on your way from the county dump to Finnegan's Turkey Farm?"

Semi-smile. "Planning for Thanksgiving," he says, then looks out over the yard, first at Van der Horn, then off in the direction of the barns. "Still no dog, huh?"

I have a sudden, strong compulsion to wrap my arms around him and bury my face in his neck. I'd need a chair for that, but whatever.

"Apparently," I tell everyone, turning the volume way down, "the dog is now dead."

"Deputy," Van der Horn calls over to me, still not moving from his post. "He's bringing her out."

Huge, billowy clouds have formed in the time we've been here. It's all brilliant blue and white above, and warm yellow below, and nothing in between. The sky appears to slant into the rolling hills.

Maybe a minute later, an off-road Cushman cart comes barreling around the end of the farm house. I'm assuming the heavily bearded man at the wheel is Van der Horn's brother. I quickly thumb through the folder. Charles, I think. Maybe Chuck. And asshole over there is Richard. Rick. Rich. Chard maybe. The cart skids to a stop in front of us, kicking dust up into our faces.

On the flatbed is what appears to be a young grey pitbull sleeping peacefully. Chuck gets out of the cart, picks up the dog with a little grunt, walks over to me, and drops her at my feet with a sickening thud. There's a .22 bullet hole in her forehead.

Ferg pushes past me and crouches down next to her. He holds his hand over her for a second before gently lowering it onto her. Petting her. He removes his hand but doesn't stand up. "She's still warm," he says.

"Han't been dead long," Charles explains with a twang, but not one trace of snark. He puts the cart in drive, and before any of us can even think, he's making a u-turn and barreling back around the house. The gang of dogs follows silently. Dinner time.

"You're a sick fuck, Van der Horn," I snarl, and immediately Walt's hand grips my bicep. I nod and shut it. I ease my arm out of his hand and inch away from him.

Stone and Marquez put their control sticks away and start loading Sunshine into the back of their truck. Ferg watches. When I look back to the porch, Van der Horn is gone.

"That's it?" I say to no one in particular. "No citation? No threat?" I look from the ACO's to Walt to Ferg, who just appears defeated.

"There's nothing we can do," says Marquez, sounding genuinely sorry. He slams the tailgate. "We asked him to surrender the dog and he surrendered the dog."

"He killed the dog," I say.

"No law against putting a sick dog down," Walt says.

"That dog wasn't . . . ." I stop myself. I'm starting to sound hysterical. They don't like it any more than I do, but what are we going to do, order an autopsy?

Maybe I'm making too big a deal out of this. "Okay," I say. "What about the puppy mill?"

It's the first time Stone has talked directly to me. "You team up with the Humane Society for that, not Animal Control." She might be giving me attitude, I'm not sure.

Walt shakes Marquez's hand and thanks Stone while Ferg and I head for his car.

We're already inside with the engine running when he comes trotting over to us and knocks on the hood. "Wait," he says, a little breathless, bending down to look at us through Ferg's open window. "I need one of you guys to go with me on quick call. Reports of a squatter out on Quail Ridge."

"I'll go, Sheriff," Ferg says, eager but still with an undercurrent of sadness.

"Well, uh, Ferg, I appreciate that, but I don't want to take you way out of your way since you've got your vehicle with you."

"So you want to take me way out of my way?" I ask, using sarcastic negativity to cover up the fact that I'm starting to sweat.

He ignores me.

"We've got it covered, Ferg. Why don't you head home from here," Walt says with a tap on the window frame. Then he turns around and heads for his truck.

"Sorry, Ferg," I say, getting out of the car. "I was pulling for you."

He smiles. "I know. Thanks, Vic. But you didn't want to have to drive this old thing anyway."

"I really, really didn't," I say, smiling back at him before slamming the door and following Walt.