“A dog.”
“A dead one.”
His mouth pulled down with skepticism. “Woofer’s the only pooch I own and you’re looking at him. He may be old, but as nearly as I can tell, he’s not dead yet. You sure about this?”
“Pretty sure,” I said. “The dog’s name was Ulf.”
He stood stock still for a moment and then squinted at me. “What did you say your name was?”
“Kinsey.”
He opened the door. “You better come in.”
I entered the house, stepping directly into the main room with Woofer at my heels. The dog padded the perimeter with his nose down, following the scent of an unseen creature, very possibly himself. The place was old. The thick walls were stucco and the ceiling was exposed timber, dark with age. The fireplace itself was a half-round of stucco tucked into one corner. The mantel was a curve of raw wood with a pair of antlers mounted above it. The furniture was Victorian, four chairs and two sofas lined up against the walls as though the center had been cleared for dancing. Three dingy rag rugs had been tossed on the floor and Woofer chose the biggest for the next phase of his nap. The room smelled like damp ash, the lingering scent of last winter’s fires.
Flannagan indicated that I should sit and I settled in a chair with an ancient black horsehair seat. Given my trivial mental processes, I was momentarily distracted by the notion of horsehair, wondering if the chair was literally upholstered in an equine hide. Couldn’t be done in this day and age, but our forebears weren’t troubled by the sorts of sentiments we harbor today, believing animals were intended for Man’s use. Even in death, nothing went to waste.
Flannagan sat down to my right on a rose-colored velvet settee with an ornate dark mahogany trim. The nap had worn thin in places, but the tufting was still crisp and all the buttons were in place. He rested his elbows on his knees, his gnarly fingers loosely laced together. “What’s your interest in Ulf? He’s been gone the better part of twenty years.”
“I know. If my information’s correct, he was buried in Horton Ravine in July of 1967.”
Flannagan was shaking his head. “That’s not possible. You’re mistaken.”
“According to the best guess, he was a German shepherd.” I reached into my jacket pocket and removed the blue leather collar with the tag attached. I handed it to him. He studied the disk, front and back, and then ran his thumb across the dog’s name.
“Shit.”
“I take it you know the dog.”
“He belonged to my son. Liam died in a motorcycle accident in 1964. Eighteen years old. He laid his Harley down in a patch of gravel on the 101 and skidded into the path of an oncoming car.”
I watched him without a word, letting him tell it his way.
He tilted his head this way and that to loosen tension, which created muffled pops. His blue eyes met mine. “Ulf wasn’t a shepherd. He was a wolfdog. You know anything about the breed?”
“Wolfdogs? No clue.”
“Ulf was what they call a high-content hybrid, meaning genetically he was more Canis lupus than Canis lupus familiaris. A hybrid is usually the result of a female wolf mated to a male domestic dog. I’m generalizing here, but as a rule, they don’t make good pets. They’re too high-spirited and demanding. Smart as all get-out, but they’re difficult to housebreak. Chain ’em up in the yard and they go berserk.”
“How long did your son have the dog?”
“Not much more than a year. Liam was in his biker phase and probably sold dope, though I never pressed him on the subject. He would have lied if I had so what’s the point? He bought the dog from a guy who had a litter of six in the back of his pickup truck. I guess if you deal drugs, owning a wolfdog lends you a certain dangerous air. They’re aggressive and predatory and they have those eerie gold eyes that look straight into your soul. Hold on. I’ll show you something.”
He got up and crossed the room to a carved oak breakfront he was using as a catchall—keys, junk mail, tools, paperbacks, a silver tea set with the creamer missing. He picked up a framed color photograph, looking at it for a moment before he crossed the room again and handed it to me. “That’s the two of them.”
I angled the photo to eliminate the glare. Liam must have inherited his mother’s coloring. Unlike his father, he was dark-haired and dark-eyed. He did have his father’s physique in a lighter body style. He wore a black leather jacket, jeans, and black boots. He was hunkered beside the young dog, which stood facing the camera with a wary air of intelligence. He looked like a German shepherd except that his torso was slimmer and his legs were longer. His coat was medium length and appeared rough, a grizzled black with layers of gray near his head. The mask of white across his face attested to the strong genetic presence of wolf.
“He’s beautiful. The name, Ulf, as in ‘wolf’?”
Flannagan smiled. “Liam came up with that. He was just a little fluff ball when he got him. Six weeks old. Even as a pup, he was a handful. I never once heard him bark, but when he howled, even as a baby, it would raise the hair on the back of your neck. Dog like that is always testing—the more wolf, the more testing. Liam was alpha male, which meant when he died, no one else could really handle the dog.”
“So he reverted to you?”
“That’s about the size of it. Wolves are pack animals. They have a clear social structure. There’s only room for one leader, and it better be you. You want alpha status with a dog like that; you have to teach him he’s subordinate. You don’t play tug-of-war with him. He doesn’t sleep on your bed. You go through the door first and he eats when you say so and not a minute before. With Liam gone and me stepping in after the fact, there was no way the dog would accept me as dominant. I tried to treat him as Liam had, but he wasn’t impressed. He put up with me. Beyond that, he obeyed if he felt like it, and the rest was my problem.”
“Must have been a strange relationship.”
“I’m not sure he ever felt much for me, but I admired him and I was grateful for his tolerance. My biggest problem was finding a vet willing to treat him. A lot of vets won’t do it. There’s no approved rabies vaccine for the breed so if the dog bites someone, the county will insist on putting him down, no ifs, ands, or buts. In some states it’s illegal to own a wolfdog. I’m not sure what the California law was back then, but I remember Liam saying when you take a wolfdog to a new vet, to be on the safe side, you claim he’s a husky or half malamute.
“That turned out to be a nonissue with Ulf. He developed what I thought was hip dysplasia, meaning the joint was unstable and started causing him pain. By the time he was four years old, the suffering was so acute he could barely get around. I’m not that good a liar so I made a lot of calls before I finally found a vet who’d see him. He suggested I drop him at the office so he could sedate the dog and take X-rays. Sedation’s a risky business with wolfdogs, but he said he understood and he’d be cautious about the dosage. Anyway, I drove him up to Santa Teresa.
“While Ulf was still under, the doc called and told me it wasn’t hip dysplasia at all. We were looking at osteosarcoma, a malignant tumor in the bone. In a young dog like Ulf, the tumor is usually fast-spreading and survival time is short. Amputation was a possibility, but I couldn’t see it with a dog like him. The vet offered to show me X-rays if I needed to be convinced, but I believed him. He recommended euthanization and I agreed.”
He lowered his head and then pinched the bridge of his nose and let the air out of his lungs. “Shit. I know I did the right thing. Own an animal and you’re responsible for his comfort and safety. You do what you have to do, even if it breaks your heart. But I should have been with him. Losing that dog was like losing Liam all over again. I couldn’t handle it. I should have driven back up there, even if he was already sedated and wasn’t aware of what was going on. Instead, I told the vet to get on with it. I told him to just take care of it and when I hung up the phone, I stood here and wept. It was cowardly. He was a noble animal. I should have held him while he died. I ow
ed him that and Liam, too.”
I was busy thinking about six other things, breathing through my mouth in hopes I could keep my shit together. Meanwhile, Woofer, the yellow mongrel, had roused himself and crossed to Flannagan’s side. He stood there with his chin on Flannagan’s thigh, looking up at him through the mop of hair that hung over his eyes. Flannagan smiled and rubbed behind his ears.
I cleared my throat. “I’ve never owned a dog.”
“Yeah, well, I swore I’d never own another one and here I am. This fellow’s fifteen years old and so far, so good. Maybe I’ll get lucky and go before he does. At any rate, that’s the story of Ulf. You caught me off guard. I never thought I’d hear another word about the dog.”
“I appreciate the information.”
“What about you? You haven’t explained how you ended up with his tag.”
I gave him an abbreviated version of my meeting with Michael Sutton, his encounter with the two guys digging the hole, and his suspicions about Mary Claire Fitzhugh. Flannagan remembered the child’s disappearance. None of the other names I mentioned meant anything to him. He hadn’t known the Kirkendalls, the Suttons, or anyone on Alita Lane.
With a shrug I said, “Maybe there’s no connection. Maybe Ulf being buried there was pure coincidence. It just seems odd. I don’t know anything about the protocol when a dog is put down. The vet might have buried him.”
“I don’t know why he would. He only saw the dog once so it’s not like there was an emotional connection between the two. I know I didn’t bury him so how he ended up in Horton Ravine is anybody’s guess. What else do you want to know?”
“I guess that’s about it. Do you remember the vet’s name?”
“Not offhand. I can sort through my canceled checks. It might take me a while, but I’ll be happy to try.”
“That was a long time ago. I can’t believe you’d have records going back that far.”
“Give me a number where I can reach you and I’ll see what I can find.”
“I’d appreciate it.”
He watched while I jotted down my home number on the back of a business card and when I handed it to him, he said, “You might want to be careful referring to this town as Peephole. People around here can be stiff-necked. We call it Puerto.”
“Thanks for the warning. I’ll watch myself.”
When I got back to my office there was a message on my answering machine. “Hey, Kinsey. Tasha here. I was hoping to catch you before you left for the day. We wanted to make sure you received the invitation to the dedication. Could you give me a call and let me know if you can make it? That’s Saturday, May 28, in case the invitation hasn’t arrived. We’d really love to see you. Hope all goes well.”
She recited her number twice like I was standing by with a pencil writing everything down. As part of my brand-new attitude of openmindedness, I did, in fact, make a note. Having done so, I tore the sheet from my scratch pad, crumpled it, and threw it in the trash. I wasn’t even tempted to take it out again, in part because I knew this was Monday and the garbage wouldn’t be picked up for another two days. Plenty of time for ambivalence.
I checked my watch. It was 5:15, time for me to pack it in for the day. I’d just locked the front door and I was heading down the walk when the turquoise MG came around the corner with Sutton at the wheel. He had the top down and his dark hair was ruffled. I waited while he parked, wondering why he was back. Even at that short distance, he looked closer to eighteen years old than twenty-six. I’ve noticed that once in a while, someone gets caught at a stage in life from which they never advance. Ten years from now, I suspected he’d look much the same, despite the close-up contradiction of crow’s-feet and sagging jawline.
He got out of the car and approached with his head down, his hands in his pockets. When he spotted me, he stopped. “Oh! Are you leaving for the day?”
“That was my intention. What’s up?”
“Can you spare me a few minutes?”
“Sure.”
He stood there, apparently thinking I’d turn around and unlock the door. He said, “I’d prefer to talk in private.”
I debated the point. When a client comes in, I offer a cup of coffee as a matter of course, usually hoping they won’t take me up on it. Often, the coffee ritual is more of a commitment than I really care to make. Set up the machine, wait until the coffee’s done, inquire about preferences (black, milk, sugar, no sugar), check the relevant supplies. I keep packets of sweetener on hand, but the milk is inevitably over the hill, and then what? We talk about the downside of powdered whitener and who gives a shit? I’d rather whiz past the chitchat and get to the point. Same with Sutton’s coming into the office and taking a seat. If I let him in, how the heck was I going to get him out? “Is this urgent?”
“Pretty much. I mean, I think so.”
“Can’t we talk just as easily out here?”
“I guess.”
We stared at each other for a moment.
“I’m ready anytime,” I said.
“I was trying to think how to say this. Remember when we were standing around by the road while the officers were digging?”
“Thursday of last week. I remember it well.”
“A bunch of people parked their cars and got out, curious about what was happening.”
I said, “Right.” Mentally, I leaped past the foreplay, guessing at his intent. I anticipated his mentioning his sister, Dee, as in Diana Alvarez, trying to offset any damage she might have done by regaling me with his tall tales of sexual abuse. I nearly brought her name up myself in hopes of heading him off. I was so close to interrupting, I nearly missed what he said.
“I caught sight of a guy I thought I knew and later I realized he reminded me of one of the pirates. I only saw him for a second and I really didn’t make the connection until yesterday. You know how it is when you see someone out of context? This guy looked familiar, but I couldn’t think why. Then it came to me.”
“One of the two pirates,” I said.
“Exactly.”
I allowed myself time to absorb what he’d said, trying to block the impact of his sister’s revelations. In that split second, I understood how completely my perception of Sutton had been tainted by what she’d told me. Even as I resisted the pull, my response to him was skewed by the notion of his tentative hold on the truth. She’d sworn he’d come around again and, sure enough, he had, offering me a new twist, the next installment in a drama that would otherwise be dead.
“You’re overthinking this,” I said. “The guys were burying a dog.”
“I know, but I went over the incident and I wondered if they might have switched the dog’s body for Mary Claire’s after I interrupted them.”
“Switched bodies? And then what? I don’t understand where you’re going with this.”
“Well, if I’m right and the guy saw me at the same time I saw him, wouldn’t he realize I was onto them? Why else would the cops suddenly be digging up the hill? He’d know the police were getting close and who else could have tipped ’em off but me?”
I closed my eyes briefly, forcing down the irritation that was surging up my spine. “Sutton, honestly, you’ll have to forgive my reaction, but I think you’re beating this to death. You were six. That was twenty-one years ago and there’s no evidence whatever that the scene you stumbled on had anything to do with Mary Claire. It’s pure conjecture on your part. Why can’t you admit your mistake and let it go at that?”
The color came up in his cheeks. “You think I’m wasting your time.” I don’t like being transparent so naturally I denied what he’d said. “I didn’t say you were wasting my time. I understand your concern, but I think it’s misplaced. You can’t be this paranoid.”
He stared at the ground and then looked up again. “I wanted you to have the information in case something happens to me. I didn’t know who else to tell.”
“Nothing’s going to happen to you.”
“But in case it did. That’
s all I’m trying to say. I’ve seen the guy somewhere, but it wasn’t recently.”
“Fair enough,” I said. “I don’t believe you’re in any danger, but what do I know? If it makes you feel better, go ahead and tell me the rest. What did he look like?”
“He was kind of light-haired and not too tall and he was wearing a suit.”
“Can you be more specific? There were six or seven guys out there who fit that description.”
“Not that many. I’d say three, not counting the officers.”
“But it still doesn’t help. The information’s too sketchy and it does me no good,” I said. “I mean, I thought it was pure genius on my part that I found the burial spot based on the flimsy information you gave me the first time out, but I have my limitations . . .”
I stopped. Sutton was watching me with a look of such mute pleading that I relented. “But enough about me,” I said. “What about his car? Did you see what he was driving?”
He shook his head. “I wasn’t paying attention. I only noticed him when he’d already parked and he was standing by the road. Next thing I knew, he was gone again.”
I stared at him.
“Sorry,” he said, sheepishly. “I see what you mean. I haven’t given you much to go on.”
“Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”
“I think so. I’m pretty sure I would.” He hesitated. “If I do, what should I do? Should I, like, follow him or maybe get the number off his license plate?”
“The plate number, sure, but I don’t want you tagging around after the guy. He’ll think you’re a stalker. In any event, the chances of your spotting him again seem remote.”
“True. Anyway, I feel better now that I’ve told you.”
“Good. Is there anything else?”
He looked up, fixing me with those solemn brown doggie eyes. “I know my sister was there. I saw her talking to you.”
“She’s a reporter. That’s what she does. She managed to buttonhole anyone who’d give her the time of day. So what?”