Chapter 13
"Eeeww! What’s that?
"What’s what?"
"Slow down. I wanna see."
Russell considered the request and relented. If she wanted to look at road kill, who was he to stop her? A part of him wanted to refuse, to say, "It’s dead, Michelle. What’s your problem?" But when he remembered why they were cruising the streets to begin with, the act of stopping to look at a flattened animal didn’t seem quite so frivolous and macabre, especially when the splattered body was roughly the same size and color as the missing dog.
"Is it him?" he asked.
She cracked the door and looked down at it. "No.” Then, shutting the door, she raised a hand to her nose and motioned with the other one: "Go. Go!"
Russell caught a whiff and floored the pedal.
They sped away from the part of Riley known affectionately, if not jokingly, as the Business District. Technically it wasn’t part of downtown (the Business District ran parallel to Main Street, on a stretch of road called Lewis Boulevard), but it was the location of several important buildings, such as The United Bank of Riley, the post office, the cineplex, and the police station. Opposite those structures, on the other side of the street, a large public park served as a distraction for the elderly and the listless alike. It was also the location of Michelle’s gruesome find. The dead dog lay mangled on top of a sewer grate, in the reticulated shadows of countless swaying sycamore leaves.
"It looked like somebody tried to push him in the sewer but he wouldn’t fit," Michelle said.
"Let it go, Michelle." Russell responded, turning off of Lewis and onto Main. Parking in front of Cradleton’s Hardware Store, he grabbed a couple of flyers from the pile on Michelle’s lap. "Wanna see if Travis will let us put these up in his window?"
Michelle paled and looked away. "I don’t know…"
"Why not? If you’re worried about Travis, don’t be. I give his son guitar lessons all the time; I know the guy."
"No, it’s not that."
"What then?" Before he asked, he knew. She had started losing the fight in her after about an hour into searching and asking questions of shop owners and people on the street. All anyone seemed to want to talk about was the one topic she wanted to avoid. As soon as the word "dog" escaped her mouth, whoever she happened to be talking to would blurt out "Oh, you askin’ if I’ve seen a dog? I’ve seen plenty of ‘em. Just walkin’ down the street, or in the alley, or diggin’ through the trash. They seem to be everywhere these days. Funny how I never noticed them before, but with the RABIES scare goin’ on, I guess I’m focusin’ on ‘em more." Some were more polite than others, but they all brought up rabies, and that was the last thing she wanted to hear.
Early on in their search, they had stopped by Ronald Sardowski’s corner market. When Russell asked if they could put a flyer or two up in the front window, Ronald had glanced at the image on the pink paper and said, "Nope. No way, junior. Tha’s a Doberman Pinscher. I know ‘cuz my nephew’s got one. Vicious dogs. They’s the type that bite lil ol’ lady’s faces off. I know wha’s goin’ on. I hear things. Now if you wanna buy somthin’, buy it. If not, git!"
Russell had muttered a sarcastic thanks, then turned to leave. Michelle, who had sidled up next to Russell when the old man’s bellicosity began rubricating his gray cheeks, flipped him the bird as they headed for the door. Before Ronald could decipher the meaning of the gesture, or respond in kind, they were out of the store.
Most of the smaller shops were supportive. The owners and employees even offered them words of encouragement. But they threw in words of caution, too: "You know what happened at the O’Brien place?" and "You heard what happened to Rhoda Baker, didn’t you? Had her throat ripped clean out. It’s RABIES, hon. You better believe it." A few possessed a flair for the dramatic and clutched their throats when they got to the part about Rhoda Baker. Russell could have done without the hammy reenactments.
And so could have Michelle. As the day wore on, she sank deeper into a funk. Everybody they talked to seemed to have a singular thought on their minds. So Russell was more than a little surprised when Michelle’s mood brightened upon seeing the dead dog on Lewis Boulevard. It had confused him that the sight of road kill had excited her. But now, sitting in the hardware store parking lot, in limbo, waiting for a definitive answer from her, he had time to reflect on why. It sullied his appetite when the answer came. Michelle had been hoping that the crumpled mass was Freddy, so she could call it a day and be through with the whole messy affair. Sure, her dad would be pissed when she told him the news, but even Russell had to admit that Michelle being in Dutch with her father was preferable over her (and him) having to listen to one more repetitious, tedious, disheartening account of Rhoda Baker’s mauling, an attack no one had witnessed. How much longer could he, and she, put up with that crap? They had all meant well (except for Ronald Sardowski), but they’d offered little solace and no hope. Gloom and doom. Gloom and doom. That’s what their speeches boiled down to. That, and:
RABIES! RABIES! RABIES!
But the flyers were out there, in bright pink. Rabies scare or not, some caring, attentive soul might still see Freddy and call. How many Dobermans could there be roaming the world unleashed? Russell wondered. He just hoped no one would try bringing him in on their own. From what Michelle had told him, Freddy could be a real mean bastard.
"You know," Russell said, "don’t even worry about it. We’ve done enough for today. I’ll help you look again tomorrow."
"Really?" she asked, her eyes widening.
"Yeah," Russell replied, trying to sound casual. "I’ve got to go in to work, but I get off at five. Then me, you, and maybe even Pete can have a go at it."
"Pete?" Michelle asked skeptically.
"I know what you’re thinking, but Pete likes puzzles and challenges and stuff. He may bitch a little, but I guarantee you if he comes along, we’ll have a better chance finding him."
"What’s the use? Freddy’s already dead. Some redneck blew his fuckin’ brains out."
"You don’t know that."
"I know, but I hope they did."
Russell drove Michelle back to Magnolia Drive. She was right; Freddy probably was dead. He didn’t know that for sure, but he sensed it. And sometimes sensing is enough. But he wouldn’t give up until she gave up, and it looked like she had some fight left in her yet. She was just tired. Today had been rough, but tomorrow is a new day, as the cup-half-full personalities like to say.
Plus, being in her presence soothed Russell, made him forget for a while. Whenever Michelle was around, all of the arias, sonatas, and concertos that normally bounced off the walls of his head fell to near-whispers. And he needed more of that in his life. He needed more silence between his notes.
The sky had begun to purple and ache with the dying day, and the air was starting to take on a hint of sea spray, when he dropped Michelle off at the curb in front of her house. As she walked the cracked concrete path to her porch, with the stack of pink flyers tucked loosely between her arm and body, the image—the aura—of her silhouette etched letters onto Russell’s heart. He couldn’t tell what the letters spelled out specifically, but he felt them being carved just the same. When she stepped inside the dark house and closed the door behind her, the message scrawled upon his heart ceased being important. He was just glad someone had taken the time out to write.
Pulling away from the curb, Russell felt the invisible cord between him and Michelle stretch. It was an anxious, queasy sensation, starting in his solar plexus and spreading through his stomach and intestines. Feeling both ecstatic and depressed at the same time, he marveled at the jumbled amalgam in his heart, head and guts. He wondered if others appreciated disjointed feelings the same way he did. But they didn’t. Most people couldn’t stand unsettling situations, let alone unsettling emotions.
Russell guessed he was just different.
When he opened the wrought iron gate, there was Apollo smiling at him in the kitchen window. Da
rrel and Diane weren’t home yet, and for that he was glad. They’d have questions he wouldn’t feel like answering. They always did.
Stepping through the door, he grabbed Apollo’s large, narrow head and stroked his long, dark muzzle. Apollo let out a few greeting barks to his master. "Hello," they said. And: "I missed you."
"Hey boy! How ya doing?"
Russell turned on the lights and saw the tiny scraps of paper strewn across the island countertop and floor. His heart sank and he felt only one emotion then.