Devoted(69)

A keening siren needled through the wind’s chorus.



“Here they come with him,” Eckman said. “Be sure to video me directing the unloading of Shacket on his gurney.”

Just then, to the left of the portico, a rat came out of the shrubbery, half-blind and bloody-eyed, confused. It hitched across the pavement on three feet, left-back leg dragging behind it. The hospital tucked poisoned feeding stations in the shrubbery, to decimate the rat population before any might find their way inside. This specimen had obviously dined heartily on warfarin. Thirst was driving it in search of water. If healthy, the rodent would have shunned the light and scurried away at the sight of Eckman and Carrickton, but it ignored them, making its way in a pitiable crawl. Without comment, they watched it cross the portico and disappear into more shrubbery. The ambulance appeared on the approach lane in cascades of flaring light, its siren dying from shriek to moan.

“Showtime,” Eckman said, and Rita readied her phone to video.





75



The exuberant greetings had been concluded. On the bed, Woody was lying on his side, facing the golden retriever. The retriever was lying on his side, facing Woody. They stared into each other’s eyes, seldom blinking. This was an age-old posture for a boy and his dog, and yet it was different from merely that, somehow singular.

Megan stood at the foot of the bed with Ben Hawkins, wondering. This was Woody in a state of detachment, transported, whatever you wanted to call it. He was here physically but perhaps not mentally or emotionally. She’d seen him in this condition many times. What seemed strange, if not extraordinary, was that the dog appeared to be in the same condition, lying as still as the boy, neither seeking the touch of an affectionate hand nor restless, nor reacting to any rattle or clang or whistle raised by the wind. Boy and dog were breathing in perfect synchronization.



“There’s something different about him,” said Ben Hawkins.

“He’s high-performing autistic with a genius IQ.”

“I meant Scooby. He’s not autistic, but I think maybe he and the boy have the smarts thing in common.”

“You really call him Scooby?”

The dog did not react to his name, as he had earlier.

“I had to call him something, and he didn’t like Rin Tin Tin. He hasn’t found a way to tell me his real name yet, but I expect he’ll figure out how to do it.”

Megan looked at Ben and liked him, and warned herself to be cautious. “But . . . how long have you had him?”

“I found him yesterday afternoon. I began to realize there was something special about him when he wanted to know why the name Clover was on the water bowl I gave him.”

Her smile was tentative. “What do you mean, he wanted to know?”

“It’s quite a story. But you evidently have one, too. The lock on that door has been shot out. There’s a bullet hole in the wall by the window over there. Scooby and I had to wait at a roadblock, and there were deputies here when we arrived.”



“It’s been a weird night,” she acknowledged.

“You’ve got a broken-out window by the front door. This wind is gonna blow everything from leaves to raccoons into your front hall if we don’t get a temporary fix on that window. If you have a heavy plastic painter’s tarp, anything like that, and some small nails, we can amaze each other with our stories while we get the job done.”

The deputies were gone. She looked at Woody, loath to leave him alone, even though Lee Shacket was in custody.

Ben Hawkins said, “Don’t worry. He’ll be all right. Scooby’s gonna look after him.”

“It’s just that . . . he’s everything to me.”

“Ma’am, that dog woke me after only an hour’s sleep, harassed me into driving—heck, I don’t know—maybe eighty miles, giving me directions all the way, just so he could get to your boy. Damn if I can understand it, but your son seems to be everything to him, too. What we’ve got here is mystery and strangeness and a broken window, and maybe when dawn comes, we’ll still have all three, but at least there won’t be owls flying through the house trying to eat the mice the wind chased inside.”

“Let’s nail up that tarp,” she said. “Don’t be spooked, but I’m going to the nightstand to get a gun I put in the drawer.”

“If you think you need it.”

“I can’t leave it here with Woody.”



“Does he have a tendency to play with guns?”

“No. He’s too smart for that.”

“So’s the dog. But get it anyway. I won’t draw down on you.”

She retrieved the gun from the nightstand.

Even at a distance, he recognized the make and model of the weapon. “Heckler and Koch USP, nine-millimeter, ten-round magazine, twenty-eight ounces, four-and-a-quarter-inch barrel. That’s a good one. You hit the intruder?”

“Tore off part of his right ear. Not a clear shot. He was using Woody for cover.”

“What were you aiming for?”

“Dead center on his face.”

“Close enough.”

“You know guns,” she said.

He smiled. “I was a Navy SEAL for eight years. In training, they expect you to do more than learn to swim.”