Canine Christmas Read online

  The baby farm was a nice game. I figured these bastard children were sons and daughters of some of Phila-delphia's biggest bugs, the ones with reputations that couldn't be tarnished, theirs or their daughters'. That would explain why the police were in on it. I bet Lena was pulling in the pieces.

  The door opened behind me.

  I turned to meet Lena's gaze.

  “You!”

  She remembered me.

  “How'd you get in here? How'd you get past …”

  “Not important now, Lena. What you should be asking is how are you going to get out of this fix you're in.”

  You could barely hear us over the noise from the cribs.

  “I done nothing wrong. I swear.”

  “Sure you have. You smothered a little girl to death and stuck her in a hay pile. You're letting another one die right here. Didn't the girl's father pay up last week?”

  “You can't prove nothin'.”

  Her sallow face was twitching now. A tear glistened on her cheek. I wasn't moved.

  I took a look at the nine bawling infants, half-buried in their own filth. All of them became the little one in the bundle, staring at me. They were saying: Get her.

  “That's murder, Lena. Infanticide. Not to mention popping your derringer off at me. You're gonna love Cherry Hill. You might get a cage all to yourself.”

  Then she held back her head and laughed.

  “All right! Go ahead. Take me to the station house. See what happens.”

  “I'll do just that, you heartless bitch.”

  I was aching to put a blue pill right through her neck. I settled for prodding her out the door, the revolver trained on her back. I planned on sending someone back to take care of the children once we got to the station house.

  We walked right out the front door, past the reserve thug across the street. I was careful to stroke my mustache, making sure my hand obscured my face. He must have wondered how I got in the house without him seeing me. He must have thought about it for a good ten seconds before his brain got overtaxed. A square away I saw him still standing there.

  Lena was a good girl. She walked by me nice and steady, like she was my lady and we were out for a stroll.

  I decided to take her on the streetcar to the central station house. We walked back up Eighth toward the stop. Before we reached it, she said to me, “You don't know who I am, do you?”

  “A killer.”

  She snorted and said, “A lady in business. And I got some friends. You'd be surprised, the friends I got.”

  “I'm sure I would be.”

  “You think they're gonna let you put me in the hatch? Uh-uh.‘Cause I'm not going down without taking them with me. They know that. They don't want the names of their little girls in the paper. They'd do just about anything to stop that from happening. That means keeping me out of the chokey.”

  “Back home at your fencing crib? Getting rid of the goods?”

  “I provide a service, that's all. For which I am paid. When payment ceases, so does the service.”

  We were on Chestnut, two squares from the stop. I could see the horses pulling the green streetcar through the slush. They were just turning the corner. For a moment, we halted.

  “What's the point of taking me in? You know I'll get off. You know the captain's one of my friends. And others above him. They can step on you like a roach. And they will. I hope I'm there to watch.”

  The car was getting closer. I could hear the gong ringing for the stop. The harness jingled against the horses' hide.

  She was right. There was no point in it. They would see to it that she wasn't charged. Too many reputations were at stake. No one cared about bastard children. Children died all the time. I was the only witness. They could rig it to swing her way. I'd seen them do it before.

  I felt weak and small. I felt like nothing.

  I closed my eyes and saw the little child's face, staring at me.

  I heard the horses' hooves clattering, just a couple rods away.

  Then I opened my eyes. I looked to the left. Lena was smirking at me. I looked to the right. The streetcar was about to rush by.

  A crowd of people were running to catch it. They ran around us, shielding us from view for a brief second. I could hear the prattle of the passengers, the horses snorting.

  I did what I did.

  Lena fell out into the street, right in the path of the oncoming car. She was pulled under the horses and whiffletree and dragged for a square until the brakes kicked in. By the time the car came to a stop there wasn't much of her left intact.

  People screamed in horror. Someone shouted for the police as I went off in the opposite direction.

  I wasn't worried about what would happen to me. I have friends, too. You'd be surprised, the friends I have.

  On the beat that night I met up with the stray again. I heard him before I saw him. When I turned around he was there, poised on the pavement, waiting expectantly.

  He accepted a steak I'd purchased for him. But this time I didn't have to toss it into the street. The dog walked over to me slowly and snatched the meat from my hand.

  As he devoured his Christmas feast, I ran my hand over his back, feeling the gangly bones underneath. His hunger was palpable. Now I understood the varieties of that hunger. He craved my touch as much as the steak. The stray's tail started flitting back and forth.

  While the dog licked his chops, I patted his mangled ears and thanked him for saving my life. My words were meant for something beyond him and myself.

  That night I watched the fires at the oil works again. I sniffed the kerosene fumes and they were like perfume to me. When I closed my eyes I saw darkness. Just darkness.

  Red Shirt and Black Jacket

  Virginia Lanier

  VIRGINIA LANIER lives in southeast Georgia with her husband, Hoss. Her first novel, Death in Bloodhound Red (marking the debut of Jo Beth Sidden), was nominated for an Agatha and a Macavity—and won the Anthony. Ms. Lanier has completed another novel about Jo Beth and her bloodhounds—and she is planning a new series.

  I stepped from the van into a penetrating cold wind. It was an unseasonably chilly day in southeast Georgia. We usually had a few days like this in late January and early February, but not a week before Christmas with carols reverberating in our ears and a Santa in every mall. A northeaster was blowing between eighteen and twenty-five mph.

  I had donned my bright Day-Glo orange-colored rescue suit and was fully protected from the cold and wind. I attached the long leads to Caesar's harness, then Mark Anthony's, stepped aside, and watched them bail out of their cages with unrestrained enthusiasm. They are two highly trained, man-trailing bloodhounds from my kennel. I tucked items into my zippered pockets and attached a quart water bottle. Jasmine Jones parked her van behind mine.

  I watched her unload. We wore identical suits. My hair is a mousy brown. Her black tresses artfully hugged her scalp and complemented her long regal neck. She is African-American with skin one shade lighter than milk chocolate. I'm pale, never tan, and look like the girl next door after a bad night.

  I hired and trained her in man-trailing, search-and-rescue, and drug searches. She lives beside me in a garage apartment and we are close friends.

  Jasmine unloaded Ashley and Miz Melanie and secured them to the van. She smiled and started toward me. I met her halfway.

  “For right now we'll leave the backpacks here.”

  “Right. Aren't you taking your gun?” Her holster was fastened over her rescue suit.

  “Never leave home without it.” I patted my left breast. “Move yours inside your suit. The dispatcher mentioned shots were fired. We're out in front if we mantrail. I don't want the perps to know we're carrying, might keep us from being used as target practice.”

  “What do you know so far?” She was placing items in the pockets of her suit.

  I glanced across the empty parking lot and saw Sheriff Philip Scroggins emerge from the double door of the Suwannee Swifty convenience
store. He spotted us and waved.

  “Have you ever met Sheriff Scroggins?” I asked.

  “Last June, when the Shop‘n’ Go was hit. You were busy with the seminar.”

  “Right, I'd forgotten. Brace yourself. Here he comes.”

  “Oh, dis ol' gal don't have to fret‘bout being bearhugged,” she drawled, parodying southern mush-mouth. “I be duh wrong color for dat!”

  I examined her guileless countenance and saw a hint of a smile on her lips.

  “It's getting to where I can't take you out in public,” I complained. “Behave yourself.”

  We lifted the sagging yellow crime scene tape and ducked under.

  Sheriff Philip Scroggins was sixty-five, bald, and almost as wide as he was tall. He was five feet four and weighed over two hundred pounds. He had been my father's friend and was now mine. His booming voice was always a shock to the senses.

  “Jo Beth, darlin', how are you?” he bellowed, grabbing me around my waist and lifting me a foot off the ground.

  “Not breathing,” I grunted. “Put me down … please?”

  He complied, then grabbed Jasmine.

  “Jasmine, my beauty! I'm so glad to see you!” He held her aloft and turned two complete circles before releasing her.

  The shocked expression on her face made me start giggling, which I tried to cover with a fake fit of coughing.

  He thundered an apology. “Me carrying on like this, while a good woman was murdered in there a little over an hour ago. I'm ashamed of myself.”

  He contemplated the building and turned back to face us.

  “Who died?” I asked.

  We were in Collins, the county seat of Gilsford County. It was only twenty miles to Balsa City, my hometown, and I knew a lot of people here.

  “Mrs. Walter Pearson, only fifty-seven years old. A nice widow woman with two grown sons.” He looked pensive. “Who expects to die during a robbery on Main Street at nine in the morning?” He sighed. “Sergeant Lyons is driving the sons home now. He'll be back shortly.”

  I didn't know her. “Any witnesses?”

  “I think we're gonna get lucky on this one, Jo Beth. I hope we have a credible witness and one of the perps lost his cap inside the store.”

  My pulse quickened. We had a chance.

  “The cap was bagged and not handled by anyone?” I inquired, trying to mask my anxiety.

  Some deputies and bystanders will finger a scent item, searching for a name—or worse, pass it around like a collection plate. This contaminates the scent article with other people's scent.

  “Rest easy honey, Lyons was the first officer on the scene. He found the witness and bagged the cap before the ambulance attendants arrived. Your scene isn't too contaminated either. The only ones who went inside were me, Lyons, and the ambulance attendants.”

  Deputy Sergeant Tom Lyons and I were smiling enemies. He hates my smart mouth and feminist ways, and I despise the way he talks about women and mistreats his prisoners.

  “Where's the witness?” I was anxious to get started.

  “He's sitting in my squad car. Come on over and I'll introduce you.”

  The three of us walked over to his car. Scroggins opened the door and nodded at me. I leaned down and saw a small black boy who was huddled in the far corner of the backseat. He was wrapped in a blanket and was clutching its folds under his chin. His eyes were showing too much white and his small hands were shaking. He stared at me.

  “Hi,” I said awkwardly. “I'll be right back.”

  I straightened, closed the door gently, and glared at Scroggins.

  “Where's his mother? He should be taken home!”

  “I agree,” he said quietly, “but so far he hasn't remembered his last name, and I'm certainly not going to let a pile of people line up and try to recognize him. How do I know that one of the perps isn't out there in the crowd standing around watching? Just a look at his face would traumatize the kid and we'd never get anything.

  “He spoke a few words to Lyons when he found him in the store, then he clammed up, and started shaking. There were two black perps, and one lost his cap. They both had guns. One fired a shot in his direction when he spotted him peeking around the ice-cream case. He's got a right to be shaken up. His name is Malahki, and he's nine years old. I think this calls for a woman's touch so I'll leave you to it.”

  Sheriff Scroggins squared his shoulders, marched off, and left it to us.

  I huddled with Jasmine and spoke softly.

  “Which dog do you prefer? I'm going to put two back in their cages. We're going to do this search by the book. No court appointed attorney is going to question the use of two dogs.”

  “I'll work Ashley, but why don't I put them back while you question the kid? It'll save time.” She sensed the way the wind was blowing.

  “Nope, Malahki is all yours. Cuddle and mother him. After he calms down, get all you can. I'll wait by the vans.”

  She looked askance at my suggestion.

  “I've never cuddled a kid in my life,” she stated succinctly, forcing the words through barely opened lips. “Why me, and not you?”

  I used my best mush-mouth drawl.

  “‘Cause Honey Chile, dis time you be the right color!”

  I left her to it.

  When I walked to the van I found both braces of bloodhounds with their leads twisted together. As I untangled them I decided to work Caesar. When I commanded Mark Anthony to load up, he sprang into his cage not knowing his day's outing was canceled. The same with Miz Melanie. When they discovered they were being left behind, they would moan and groan.

  Bloodhounds love to trail. They enjoy searching for an illusive scent among many, many thousands of others. Every step we take we drop thousands of tiny skin particles, lint, and dust; all impregnated with our body odor which is unique. No two people smell the same. When a bloodhound is presented with an article that has been worn by one person they can lock onto the scent and follow.

  However, the present strong wind had me worried. The ideal scent trailing is on a damp windless day with high humidity. The odor drops to the ground and hovers nearby. On days such as this, we could be searching over twenty to fifty feet away from the actual route the perp took. Hell, it could be blown into the next county by now, who knew?

  Our sense of smell is infinitesimal compared to a blood-hound's. Many experts claim it can be a million or more times greater. So we humans train them, teach them manners and to follow orders, then let them drag us around. We can only hope that they are following the right scent. We certainly can't tell.

  I taught myself from books several years ago, trained the hounds, then other handlers. I mostly used a brace of bloodhounds, meaning two. I have strong shoulders, and both of my arms are probably slightly longer than they should be. Controlling two dogs weighing over a hundred pounds apiece is not for the fainthearted, believe me.

  Bloodhounds are the only breed of dogs whose testimony is considered in a court of law. I know, I know, times are changin', and soon other breeds will be allowed if they can pass the test of having the right criteria. Still, bloodhound owners point to this law that has been on the books for over a hundred years with great pride. The upstarts may claim the ability, but they can never match our long history in court cases.

  The rules for bloodhound testimony are very specific. Each owner has to prove his or her man-trailer is AKC registered and has had successful experience in actual man-trailing. Their finds have to be documented and proven. The dog also has to be reliable and there must be supporting evidence. Every defense attorney picks at these threads and tries to unravel their evidential worth.

  As of this day and as far as I know, the laws of Georgia do not exclude the evidence if one handler works two bloodhounds. The new proposed procedure would be one bloodhound and one human trainer. Seventeen other states now have passed this new provision into law. I know an ACLU lawyer upstate who is working to get the new law passed, as I stand here. I have no reservations about
this one-on-one, especially for beginners, either human or canine. I would also like to note that the aforementioned lawyer lost a previous major case because a good ol' boy did everything right with three bloodhounds and fried his ass in court.

  I couldn't take the chance in a murder investigation, so Jasmine and I would work one-on-one. The law might have already passed without my knowledge and ignorance of the law is no excuse.

  “Well, Sweet Thang, how's tricks? Getting any lately?”

  I'd recognize that voice on the dark side of the moon.

  “Deputy Sergeant Lyons, I'll make this statement only once.” I enunciated each word slowly. “My name is Jo Beth Sidden. You may call me Jo Beth, Ms. Sidden, or hey you, but one more use of my name as slop or sexist drivel, I'll kick your balls into your rib cage.”

  “Jo Beth, hon— listen, I'm mortified you're in such a sour mood. Pardon me all to hell and back. You've got a foul mouth just like me. How come you can call me names and I can't rib you a little? Answer me that!”

  “Only friends can rib me, and you don't qualify. Also, we have a law that works to protect both you and me. We're equals, remember?”

  “When hell freezes over,” he said sardonically.

  I saw Sheriff Scroggins approaching with Jasmine by his side.

  “May the bluebird of happiness shit on your pillow each morning,” I whispered.

  Lyons opened his mouth to retaliate, then shot a foot in the air when the sheriff's voice boomed a greeting directly behind him.

  I laughed and Lyons looked murderous. Even Scroggins could sense the testosterone wafting on the breeze.

  “What?” Scroggins barked, looking from me to Lyons.

  “We were discussing birds,” I explained.