Sheepdogs: Keeping the Wolves at Bay, Gordon Carroll [howl and other poems .txt] 📗

Tears brimmed, and that dull lifeless glaze melted. “Thish ish shupposhed to make me want to live?”

I nodded. “Yes, because if Shane loved you enough to die for you, the least you can do is love him enough to live. Don’t make his sacrifice worthless.”

He broke down. He cried for a long time. The kind of crying that racks your body and steals your strength, leaving you out of breath and exhausted — empty — helpless.

I slipped the thumb dot, still in its case, from under my gown; I’d been holding it under my armpit. Sarah brought it back from the crime scene along with a flash drive full of pictures. I put it in Joseph’s hands.

“Ten million dollars,” I said. “Maybe a billion if you play it right. It’s yours. Do what’s right.”

He snapped it in two.

It was a good start.

52

A few days later I was back at 20th and Blake. The dogs were still at my house recovering. Pilgrim lost a lot of blood and suffered a collapsed lung (copy cat), but was on the mend. Max took a round through the meaty part of his left haunch and acted like nothing had happened at all. I remember him standing over me, back at Doors’ cabin, as the Colorado Springs Police came onto the scene and how he was ready to rip them apart to protect me. If I hadn’t managed to come around and stay awake long enough to command him to stand down, I probably would have bled to death or they would have had to shoot him. It made me feel all gooshy inside. Maybe I was starting to grow on him.

I’d gotten a phone call that night in the hospital, it was Nick Carlino. He asked me one thing. Was the little girl safe? When I told him yes, he said I owed him one. I had a vision of Marlon Brando with puffed cheeks sitting behind a desk in a dark room, me sitting opposite as he told me what he wanted me to do. Hmm. Right, me, hanging out with mobster gamblers. What are the odds?

I let the workout go for a while, the broken rib and cracked sternum taking their time to heal. At the office, I worked on my schedule. I had three K9 trials to judge in the next week. I finished up writing reports on the Franklin case, closed three others and stared at Gary Cooper’s poster, seeing Arnold Verick’s soulless eyes as he pointed the gun at my face.

Around eleven I got hungry. I went down the street to Dimitri’s for a pita.

“What happened to you?” asked the blonde with the musical laughter.

I rubbed at one of the sore spots on my cheek. “Flag football. It’s a lot rougher than it looks.”

“I guess so.” She handed me my food. “A gyro for a hero.”

I laughed.

She smiled. “Still playing the Maytag repairman?”

I put a five in the tip jar. “It’s so lonely. They never break down.”

“Well you look more rested at least.”

“Thanks, I’ve been sleeping better.” I walked to the table by the window and watched the people walk by. Last night I dreamt of my wife and my daughter. We were having a picnic in the mountains. We ate and played and swam in a little lake that was as calm as glass. It was wonderful.

I hadn’t dreamed of my daughter dying since I saved Amber. Life wasn’t perfect, I still had ghosts to put to rest, but at least there was that. And, hey, I’m a work in progress.

The sandwich tasted great. A gyro for a hero. I smiled, looked out the window at the bright spring day and watched the world go by.

53

Max

The Alpha was not at the house. He’d been gone all day, and now that night had fallen the breeze was turning cool and crisp. Max liked it this way. Sound and scent traveled well in clear air.

A whine sounded from the corner. Pilgrim was still recovering and could only walk with difficulty. Max watched as the older dog struggled to his feet and made his way outside to empty his water. Max followed him and watched from the dark shadows of the garage. Pilgrim couldn’t raise his leg. He had to squat, like a female, his flow weak and broken. Max saw Pilgrim wince and heard him whine as he made water beside the tree.

It was a bad injury, very bad. Max had smelled the death smell on Pilgrim for several days and thought he wouldn’t make it. But Pilgrim had shown a greater strength than Max would have credited him with. Perhaps, as with the Alpha, there was more to Pilgrim than at first seemed evident.

Max was learning there were different kinds of strength, different kinds of power. He was learning that there were still things for him to learn.

Pilgrim finished and tried to stand. His hind legs gave out and he slumped to his belly on the dirt and grass. He lay there for a second, then tried to get up. He failed and Max heard him whine again as he dropped.

The wind shifted and Max smelled it, just for an instant, but in the crisp air it was enough. He saw the coyote hiding by the tree a few feet behind Pilgrim, its teeth bared, eyes locked on Pilgrim’s throat, about to strike.

Pilgrim was weak, old. The coyote was neither.

Max moved with the sleek, silent power that was his alone. Slipping like a breath of wind, a gale force, his ears riding back along his skull, tail straight, body low, eyes sharp. He flew like an arrow.

The coyote sprung at Pilgrim, shooting his head down at the injured dog’s throat. Max caught him in midair and his ninety pounds of body weight combined with his incredible speed slammed the animal back as though it had been struck by a bolt of lightning.

Max felt the coyote trying