Devoted(28)
Although one like Kipp could show up in the litter produced by two ordinary dogs, that was rare, the expression of Mysterian genes that were recessive either in the male or female. As a consequence, Mysterium protocols that regarded mating had for some time required them to choose a mate only from among their own kind. But as the number of males and females was not always in perfect balance, at times some of them had no immediate hope of a mate. At the moment, there were more males than females.
Two other constraints hampered the growth of their community. First, monogamy. In nature there were many species that mated for life. This was not ordinarily true of dogs, but the Mysterians had decided that it was true for them, and they were faithful to their mates as perhaps most of humanity was not. Also, for whatever reason, they didn’t produce large litters, as did ordinary dogs. There was a tendency for some females to be barren and some males to be sterile, and even when litters formed, they were no larger than three; often there was no litter at all, just one pup.
With no prospect of a mate and having lost his beloved human companion, Kipp had only the community of the Wire. Although that was precious, it was not enough for a creature as sociable as he’d always been. In Rosa’s estimation, he deserved better than her.
She sighed and said, “But I’m what you have, dear Kipp.”
As the ascending mist pressed through the pines and reached the yard beyond the flagstone terrace, Rosa turned from the window and went in search of the grieving dog who was more than a dog, who was in fact hers to cherish and protect, like the child she’d never had.
She started in the kitchen, because that and the library were Kipp’s favorite rooms. Earlier, before she’d gone to the mortuary to make arrangements and attend the cremation, she had put out a bowl of food for Kipp and another of fresh water. Both were untouched.
In his grief, he might have had no appetite, though goldens were chowhounds. Nevertheless, he would have needed water.
Disquieted but not yet alarmed, Rosa went room to room through the ground floor, calling his name. Her voice echoed off the walls with an eerie hollowness, as if all the furniture had been removed and the windows boarded up and the house abandoned to the merciless progress of time and decay.
As she climbed the stairs and reached the upper floor, Rosa was shouting urgently. “Kipp! Where are you, Kipp?”
Disquiet swelled into a terrible apprehension, a piercing fear that she’d already failed at fulfilling this greatest responsibility of her life. Chamber by chamber, through closets, along corridors, peering under this and behind that, upstairs twice from end to end, downstairs again, front to back, she searched but wasn’t rewarded by the sight, the sound, or any trace of him. Kipp was gone.
25
In the front passenger seat of the Range Rover, safety harness snugged around him, Kipp liked what he smelled of his rescuer.
Kindness, confidence, a hint of soap, the fresh minty scent of chewing gum, the fragrant juice of trodden wild grass on his shoe soles, and very little ear wax, among other things.
No aftershave, no coconut-scented hand sanitizer, no misfired urine anywhere on him.
As they pulled out of the campground toward the state route, the man said, “Thanks to my mom and dad, my name’s Brenaden. If they know what’s good for them, people call me Ben.”
In the campground office, he had told Frank the Hater to cancel the reservation for Hawkins. So he was Ben Hawkins.
“What do people call you?” Ben asked.
Kipp grinned at him.
“You’re the strong, silent type, huh?”
They turned northwest. That was good. The murmuring thoughts of the young boy on the Wire were coming from that direction.
“I’ll think of a name for you. I’m good at names.”
Kipp leaned forward in his harness to sniff the glove box. It contained some kind of cheese crackers.
“But we won’t rush the name thing. Names are important. In my line of work, I have to come up with a lot of memorable names.”
Kipp could smell peanut butter between the cheese crackers in the glove box.
“I write novels,” Ben said. “What line of work are you in?”
To convey certain emotions to Dorothy, Kipp had developed a few special noises. As an expression of amusement, he made a soft rapid panting sound: Heh-heh-heh-heh-heh.
“I used to be a Navy SEAL. When I signed up for that, I didn’t realize how many people would be shooting at me. So after like eight years, when I was still alive, I decided to change careers.”
Kipp looked away from the glove box, cocked his head, regarded his rescuer with interest.
“Now some book critics snipe at me, but they don’t kill anyone. Though there’s one I suspect has bodies buried in his basement.”
Nature was full of patterns, and life was full of coincidences, and Kipp believed that something like destiny was always at work.
Dorothy loved books.
Kipp got his love of stories from her.
Now here was a writer of stories.
Who was also a warrior. If destiny was real, the warrior part of Ben Hawkins was probably as important as the writer part.
Which meant maybe serious trouble was coming.
“It’s getting late to set up camp.”
On both sides of the highway, the woods filled with gloom.