“Maybe you’ve been chipped,” he says.
He closes the cargo bay door, gets behind the wheel, and does a tight three-point turn to reverse course.
He takes the dog to a twenty-four-hour emergency veterinary clinic.
“An interesting hybrid,” the vet says as she closes the wound on the dog’s shoulder. “But without a DNA test I couldn’t tell you what the breed mix is. He hasn’t been chipped and there’s no collar. I don’t know of anyone who is looking for a lost dog that fits this description.”
“What will happen to him?” he asks.
“I can’t keep him here,” the vet says. “You’ll have to take him to a shelter. They’ll make sure he gets follow-up care. By the way, this dog was not hit by a car. He was shot.”
She uses a medical instrument to hold up the smashed bullet she has just removed from the dog’s shoulder. It is surprisingly shiny, almost as if it was made of silver.
Just a trick of the light, he thinks. No one uses silver bullets, not in the real world.
Eight
A groan emanating from thevicinity of the floor brought him out of a light sleep. Luke opened his eyes and took stock of his surroundings. The first thing he noticed was that Bruce was not draped across his legs or curled up next to the sofa. That was not normal. Ever since Bruce had appeared in his life three months earlier, the dog had rarely left his side.
His next observation was that the storm was over. His internal sense of time told him it was morning and his watch confirmed it was still early, but there was only a thin hint of light outside. Sunrise came late in the mountains regardless of the season.
As Sophy had predicted, the power had gone off during the night. He could hear the faint, muffled sound of a generator.
On the floor, Rivington fumbled his way out of the quilt, braced himself on his elbows, and stared at Luke with blurry, bewildered eyes.
“Who the fuck are you?” he asked.
“Not your new best friend.” Luke pushed the blankets aside,swung his feet to the floor, and sat up on the sofa. “My name is Wells. Luke Wells. I’m just another overnight guest here at Bea Harper’s shop. I checked your ID, so I know you’re Mack Rivington, a failed experiment.”
“Huh?” Mack pushed himself to a sitting position. “What are you talking about?”
Luke leaned forward, picked up the badge holder on the coffee table, and tossed it to Rivington, who caught it automatically.
“I’ve been given strict instructions not to intimidate you,” Luke said. “But I do have a few questions for you.”
“Yeah?” Mack scrambled to his feet. His hand went to the empty holster under his crumpled jacket. When he realized his weapon was missing, his jaw clenched a couple of times. “I’ve got some for you.”
“Sure. By the way, your weapon is in a cupboard in the kitchen.” Luke reached for his shirt, wincing. He had slept in his trousers and T-shirt, the same clothes he’d been wearing since he had gotten the call from his grandparents more than twenty-four hours earlier. He needed a shower and a shave. “You’re probably curious to know how you wound up sleeping on the floor. We agreed to a coin toss.”
“Evidently I lost.”
“It was a tough call.”
“Where’s Sophy?”
“Right here,” Sophy said from the top of the stairs. She had a flashlight in one hand. “And before this conversation gets any more exciting, I’m going to make a large pot of coffee.”
“Good plan,” Luke said.
He got the stirring sensation again—as if he had been standing on an empty mountain road at night in the fog, waiting for her.
He watched her descend the stairs. Bruce padded enthusiastically after her.
That answered one burning question, Luke thought. He now knew where the dog had spent the night.
When she reached the bottom of the staircase, Sophy switched off the flashlight. In the weak glow of dawn he saw that she was wearing jeans, a rust-brown pullover, and sneakers. Her hair was once again in a casual knot on top of her head, secured with a clip. The black-and-crystal glasses were perched on her nose.
Mack shoved his fingers through his hair and looked at Sophy. “I could use some coffee. What the hell happened to me last night?”
