Widowmaker (Mike Bowditch #7)(76)

“Normally.”

“So we have the same goal here. Fortunately, Shadow has gotten a reprieve. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a long drive ahead of me today. I’m going to go get a carrier out of the back of my truck, and I’ll be right back.”

I stepped outside before she could respond. Outside, traffic was moving at a steady clip in both directions. The cold air smelled heavily of auto fumes. I lifted the dog carrier from the bed of my truck and returned as quickly as I could to the shelter.

Phyllis Murray hadn’t been idle. While I’d been outside, she had gone to retrieve Shadow’s folder and was examining every document with great care. “My understanding was that everything had already been decided.”

“Is there anything in there granting the shelter ownership of him?” I asked, hoping that no one at IF&W had signed any papers yet. I hadn’t considered the possibility that somebody in the department might have unwittingly sabotaged my plan.

“No, but—” she said.

“Then let’s go get him.”

Phyllis Murray raised her eyes from the folder. Then, to my surprise, she laughed out loud. She had been torn between two aspects of her personality, I realized: the side that believed in strict adherence to rules and regulations, and the side devoted to saving animals at all costs. In the end, the better angels prevailed.

Still smiling, she handed the folder to Kendall. “Let’s go get him.”

The three of us passed through a series of rooms before arriving, finally, at the kennels. The floors were concrete, with inset drains, and there were overhead fans mounted in the ceiling that recirculated the air. The odor of urine and feces was overpowering, and the barking was so loud, it hurt my ears.

Dogs of all sorts—purebreds and mutts—surged forward, pressing their wet noses against the cages to meet us. One elderly beagle licked the steel links, unable to reach my hand.

Phyllis Murray had to shout to be heard above the animals. “We had to separate him from the other dogs. They’re terrified of him.”

There was a vacant kennel between Shadow and his nearest neighbor, a shivering gray mutt who looked like he was still too close to the wild animal down the lane. The black wolf dog stood in the back of his cage. He didn’t approach, make a sound, wag his tail, or signal in any way that he acknowledged us. At a glance, you might have mistaken him for a stuffed animal in a museum diorama—until you stared into those eerie gold eyes.

“Isn’t he, like, the most awesome thing you ever seen?” said Kendall.

“He’s magnificent,” said Phyllis Murray.

“How often do you let him outside?” I asked.

“We don’t.”

“Why not?”

“He found a spot along the bottom where the cage had broken loose of the concrete and started to attack it,” Phyllis Murray said. “I didn’t even know there was a hole there. He almost got out.”

I crossed my arms and stared deeper into the wolf dog’s uncanny eyes. To make eye contact with a predator is usually a prelude to a fight, but Shadow and I were still sizing each other up.

“Do you have some protective gloves you can put on?” Kendall asked. “We have some you can use.”

“I won’t need them,” I said.

The schoolmarmish Phyllis Murray replied, “Yes, you do.”

“He knows I’m his friend.”

“Friendly dogs can tear your arm off under certain circumstances. You need to put on the gloves.”

She disappeared into the adjoining room and returned with heavily armored gloves that extended past the elbow. I put them on.

I squatted down beside the carrier. “Hey, Shadow.”

His eyes bored into mine. If this was going to be a challenge, would it be better for me to assert myself as an alpha? Or should I accept the role of a harmless beta to lure him close? With domestic dogs, you always want to show them who is boss. With wolf hybrids, I had absolutely no clue.

“OK, Kendall,” I said. “You can open the door.”

For protection, the two women kept the chain-link door between the wolf dog and themselves.

I held my breath.

None of us moved for the longest time.

And then, without further enticement, Shadow trotted forward. He ducked his head and stepped into the plastic carrier as if he’d been trained to do it. He was such a big animal, he barely fit when I closed the gate behind his tail. In the cramped box, he was going to have trouble turning around on our long journey up into the mountains.

“He really does know you’re his friend,” said Kendall, amazed.

“Here,” said Phyllis Murray, taking a handle. “Let me help you with that.”

The woman was remarkably strong. The two of us lugged the heavy crate through the series of rooms and outdoors without having to pause to rest.

“I’ll take it from here,” I said.

“You’ll throw out your back,” said Phyllis Murray.

I squatted down so that I would be using my leg muscles, and then I grabbed the two handles and pushed hard against the ground. It was like deadlifting a hundred-pound barbell. Getting the carrier onto the truck gate took everything I had, and I knew I was going to be stiff for days afterward. The wolf dog growled and flicked his tail. I crawled into the bed of the pickup and pushed the box until it was right behind the cab, out of the wind. Then I tied the kennel tight with bungees to the frame of the truck.