Widowmaker (Mike Bowditch #7)(75)

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The Lakes Region Animal Shelter was located in a nondescript building along busy Route 302, which is the main road from Portland into the White Mountains of New Hampshire. It was one of those long, low rural structures that had probably been half a dozen things over the years—day-care center, dentist’s office, travel agency, beauty salon—but which was now the temporary home for wayward cats and dogs waiting to be returned to their owners or in need of new ones.

From the icy parking lot, I couldn’t see the pens at the back of the building, but I could hear the barking of dogs, large and small, let outside into the open air. At least the people who ran the shelter had had the courtesy to choose a headquarters far from the nearest residences. There was an auto-body shop across the highway, but otherwise nothing but white pines in either direction.

A buzzer sounded as I stepped through the door. I breathed in the earthy scent of cat litter and dog hair gone airborne. Muffled barks made their way through the walls. The entry was decorated with pictures of animals up for adoption and posters that offered veterinary tips for pet owners.

A thin, freckle-faced young woman appeared from another room. She was cradling a tabby under her arm. It had a bandage on its foot, a plastic cone around its neck, and a displeased expression on its small face.

“Hello?” she said in a stuttering voice.

“Good morning,” I said. “I’m Mike Bowditch, the game warden who rescued the wolf dog that you’re sheltering.”

Rescued seemed a cruel word under the circumstances, given Shadow’s likely death sentence.

Her eyes widened. “Really? That’s so awesome. Oh my God, he’s such a beautiful animal.”

“How is he doing?”

“Dr. Carbone said he’s actually very healthy.” She stroked the cat’s back, but to no good effect. The tabby continued to glower. “Those awful people didn’t abuse him at least.”

“That’s good to hear.” When I reached out to touch the cat’s fur, it gave a hiss. “What’s this guy’s name?”

“Gremlin.”

“What happened to him?”

“He got caught in a trap. Those things should be outlawed! Talk about animal cruelty!”

I doubted she would have liked me if I’d told her I’d gotten a junior trapping license the month I’d turned ten. I reached into my wallet and found a business card. “If you ever have problems with dogs or cats getting caught in traps, give me a call, and I’ll go have a talk with the trapper.”

“You’d do that? That’s so sweet of you.”

We smiled at each other while she stroked the cat.

“My name’s Kendall,” she said out of the blue.

“Can I speak with the director, please, Kendall? It’s about Shadow.”

“Let me put Gremlin back in his cage, and I’ll go get Phyllis.”

“Phyllis is the director?”

“Uh-huh. I’m just a volunteer here. I just started three weeks ago.”

After Kendall disappeared into the next room, I checked my phone. There were no messages or texts from Kathy yet. I hoped she was having luck persuading the founder of Fenris Unchained to accept Shadow. If he didn’t, I had no idea what I would do next.

Kendall returned after a few minutes, accompanied by a stocky middle-aged woman wearing granny glasses, a hand-knit sweater, felt pants, and sensible shoes. Her clothes were absolutely covered in dog and cat fur.

“Phyllis Murray,” she said, shaking my hand solidly. “I’m the director here.”

“Mike Bowditch.”

“You’re the warden who saved Shadow, Kendall tells me.”

I removed my knit cap out of old-fashioned politeness. The way Phyllis was dressed, she struck me as the old-fashioned type. “That’s right,” I said. “I appreciate your taking care of him for us.”

“Are you here to see him one last time?”

The implication being that his appointment with death was imminent. “No, ma’am. I’m taking him to be adopted.”

She didn’t stand more than five feet tall, but when she straightened her back, she seemed to grow in size. “I am confused. Shadow chased and killed a deer. Dr. Carbone has already declared him to be a danger to the public.”

“I’ve found a sanctuary in New Hampshire willing to take him,” I said, hoping it wasn’t so much a lie as a prematurely told truth.

“That Fenris place?” Her eyes went to heaven. “Have you ever seen that so-called sanctuary?”

“No, ma’am. Have you?”

“No, but I’ve heard stories.” Phyllis Murray was not a woman who was easily swayed. “We’re not allowed to release a wolf dog that poses a danger to the public, even to a person licensed to possess wildlife. I’m sorry, but those aren’t just shelter rules. Our hands are tied by certain laws.”

“That’s not entirely true, legally speaking,” I said. “Title 7, Section 3911 gives my department six days to dispose of a wolf hybrid at large, before the shelter can claim ownership. That means I’m the one who is still responsible for him for the time being.”

“Are you certain of that?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am. The Warden Service is committed to doing everything we can to keep these animals from being put down. I saw on your Web site that this is a no-kill shelter.”