Widowmaker (Mike Bowditch #7)(69)

The smell of the fried burger had begun to nauseate me. “How did he end up with a drug dealer in Maine?”

“No one knows, but it seems his original owner died recently. The wardens in Montana contacted the relatives for us, and they didn’t even know their uncle owned a wolf dog. They’re ranchers, and they hate wolves. They said we should just put him down.”

I pushed the tray away with such force, it nearly slid off the table. “Jesus.”

“I know,” she said.

“So what happens now?”

“Normally, we’d try to find someone to take him, someone with a license to possess wildlife. There used to be a wolf dog sanctuary just across the border in New Hampshire, but it went out of business.”

“You said ‘normally.’ What does that mean?”

She took a breath. “Under the law, the vet is supposed to euthanize a wolf dog if there’s a potential danger to the public.”

I was having a hard time hearing above the clamor of the restaurant and felt compelled to raise my own voice. “But you said Shadow wasn’t aggressive.”

“He killed a deer.”

“What’s the name of the vet?”

“Dr. Carbone.”

“Can I talk to him?”

“I’m not at the shelter. And Dr. Carbone is up at Sugarloaf for the weekend. He has a condo there.”

The thought of swinging around and driving back into the mountains occurred to me before I realized how mad I would seem, showing up unannounced on the doorstep of the man’s second home. “Can you get a message to him? Tell him I’ll find someone to take Shadow. There’s no need to put him down.”

“Dr. Carbone is a good vet.”

“I’m sure he is.”

“He doesn’t make decisions like these lightly.”

“Joanie—”

“I hate it, too, but—”

“Joanie, I understand. But you have to promise me that nothing will happen to Shadow before I have a chance to talk to Dr. Carbone. Will you do that? Will you promise me?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you. He can call me anytime, day or night.”

“I will let him know that.”

It was only after I’d signed off that I realized that everyone at the surrounding tables was staring at me.





26

Two hours later I arrived home and discovered that the plow had erected a wall of ice and snow as high as my chest between the road and my driveway. Having no other choice, I ended up parking exactly where Amber had parked—in the middle of a dangerous curve—while I chipped away at the frozen barrier with a shovel and an ice chopper.

I had spent two tiring days on the road, and for what? I had been too late to save Adam Langstrom, if he had even been worth saving. By all accounts, my half brother had been an arrogant * who had brought his problems on himself. And now he was probably dead. Did it even matter who had killed him or why? As a law-enforcement officer, I was supposed to think it did. But I was having a hard time caring about closure.

Then I thought of Amber. She might have been a shallow and self-centered person, but I still felt heartsick when I envisioned her alone in her dark, smoky apartment, having lost the only thing outside of herself she had ever loved.

Meanwhile, the wolf dog that I had ostensibly rescued was facing lethal injection, all because of me. I hated to imagine the existence Shadow might have had if he’d lived out the rest of his days with Carrie and Spike, but at least he wouldn’t be headed to the death chamber.

How could I be so indifferent to the fate of my own half brother and so distraught about a dog I’d met for a matter of minutes?

I was as lathered as a racehorse by the time I’d finally cleared a drivable path from the road to the garage. I parked the Scout inside and let the descending door plunge me into darkness.

I carried an armload of hardwood into the living room and dropped the logs beside the stove. I thought of the Pulsifers’ house, full of loud children and scampering dogs, and realized how tired I was of living alone. Stacey and I had avoided discussing the idea of moving in together because most of her work as a wildlife biologist needed to be done up north. But that was just a bullshit excuse. The truth was, we were both afraid of commitment.

After I had made a fire, I peeled off my dirty clothes and stood under the showerhead until the water began going cold. The stitched wound on my arm reminded me of a black centipede. I applied a clean bandage.

I was shaving at the sink, with a towel around my waist, when I heard my cell buzz in the hall. The phone was still in the pocket of my pants, which I’d tossed on the floor.

Even before I answered, I knew from the number on the screen who was calling me.

“Hi, Charley,” I said, glad to hear from my old friend.

From the background noise, I could tell that Stacey’s father was in an echoey space, surrounded by jabbering people.

“Mike.” His voice sounded strange—flat.

“I’ve been meaning to thank you and Ora for Christmas. You really didn’t have to go to all that trouble. And it was so nice of you to invite Aimee Cronk and her kids.”

“Mike,” he said again.

“What’s wrong?” I felt pressure beginning to build behind my eardrums.