The Dysasters (The Dysasters #1)(83)

“Where are your car keys?” she asked.

Bowen pointed to a corkboard by the front door where a set of keys dangled.

“You can take the dog out. But leave her out there,” Eve said.

“Storms make Bugsy nervous,” Bowen said.

“Put her in the garage,” Eve said.

“Would you want to sit out a storm in the garage?” Bowen grumbled at her.

“No, but I’m not a dog, either. And that’s the deal. You can take her out. Do whatever you want with her, but she doesn’t come back in with you. Got it?”

Bowen stared down at Bugsy, fixing his face before he looked at Eve. When he did he made sure his voice sounded tired and sad, and he bowed his shoulders even more. “I’ve got it. I’ll put her in the garage.”

“Excellent. Don’t be long. I’d hate for your breakfast to get cold.”

Bowen said nothing. He continued to limp slowly toward the door, but before he could get there Mark had it open.

“Do you need help? Want me to bring blankets for Bugsy? A water dish or something?”

“No, son,” Bowen said, not unkindly. “There’re old work blankets in the garage, and I keep extra bowls out there. She’ll have water from the hose and her dry food.”

“There’s nothing I can do to help?”

Bowen looked into Mark’s eyes and saw the utter lack of hope that filled the space between his quiet demeanor and his obvious concern. Bowen recognized that hopelessness. He’d lived it as he watched his beloved wife slip away from him and leave behind the shell in which she used to reside, and then even that shell faded into dust. For a moment the recognition of hopelessness made him feel bad for the young man, and he used that moment. Bowen rested a trembling hand on Mark’s shoulder. “There is something you can do. Can you let me have a few minutes with Bugsy? Eve wants me to hurry, but I need to let the old girl know everything’s okay. I—I just don’t want her to be afraid. Do you understand?”

“I do.” Mark nodded. “Take all the time you need, sir. I’ll be sure Eve doesn’t bother you.” He paused, and Bowen waited. Then he added, “And I’ll also make the rain hold off until you come back inside. No sense in you and Bugsy getting soaked out there.”

“Thank you, son. Thank you.” Bowen squeezed Mark’s shoulder. Then he shuffled out onto the wide porch that framed his house. Slowly, carefully, he hobbled down the front stairs, making a show of stopping when he reached the ground and leaning against the railing like he was having a hard time catching his breath. Finally, he shambled around the side of the house, heading in the direction of the garage.

Bugsy stayed close beside him, watching Bowen with wise, yellow eyes.

About halfway to the garage Bowen dropped his cane so that he had to stop and bend painfully to pick it up, and as he did he glanced up under his arm at the house.

Mark was standing on the porch watching him. Bowen straightened like he was the Tin Man needing oil and before he continued on his slow, doddering progress he gave Mark a thumbs-up. Mark waved and then disappeared inside the house. Bowen stood for another moment, pretending he needed to catch his breath. He saw no one watching. No one came out on the porch. No one was looking out any window.





He could hardly contain his excitement, but Bowen kept in character—actually, he was enjoying his frail old man act. When he reached the garage he leaned against it, coughing like his lungs had suddenly gone old and feeble, too. Then he shuffled around the side of the building where the door was located—and where the garage blocked the view of him and Bugsy from the house.

Bowen dropped the cane and then began to do several warm-up stretches as Bugsy started to wag and jump happily around him.

“That’s right, Bugsy old girl. Did I tell you about the time I scrimmaged against Notre Dame with a broken arm? Back before football was for pussies? And those dumbasses inside our house think knocking me around a little actually stopped me? Hell, I was offered scholarships in track and football by a Big Ten university. I still go to the gym five times a week, and every morning, rain, shine, or hurricane, you and I jog up and down this beach in the sand. Let’s show ’em how real athletes age!”

Then Linus Bowen, who was almost eighty years young, ran. Arms pumping, but upper body relaxed, he still had the form of the track star whose hundred-yard-dash record stood at his high school for almost forty years after he graduated. Beside him the huge wolfhound kept perfect pace.

In no time he’d made it to the sand dunes and the tall sea grass that he’d let grow wild on his property because the old biology teacher in him loved nothing more than providing a natural habitat for what he considered after all these years his seabirds and his coastal flora and fauna. There he had some cover, and was able to slow to a jog, weaving his way easily between mounds of sand and scraggly bushes.

“Steady old girl, steady,” he spoke to Bugsy between deep, even breaths as he stripped off his sweatshirt and tied it around his waist. “The Chevron station is two miles this way, on the other side of Cobb’s Cove. That’s where we’re headed. Then I’ll call real Texas law enforcement and they’ll be on those four like stink on shit.” Chuckling, Bowen jogged on, with the big dog at his side.





27


CHARLOTTE