Running with the Pack
Page 34

Half carrying him, I bring him back and fix him.
“Look,” I say. “I didn’t spend all that time and energy on you to see you throw it away, trying to be noble. You’re part of mine now and I protect mine.”
A day isn’t much time so I’m at the Humane Shelter’s door as soon as it opens.
“Hey, Mongrel.” Lily greets me with a smile. “Find another pup?”
She’s filling bowls with generic dog food (such a shame!). I help her feed her charges. Excited barks and yips ring through the metal cages. Lily’s the only normal person I talk to on a regular basis.
“Not today.”
“Take a look at the flyers. There’s a black Lab missing. Owner’s are offering a hundred dollar reward.”
Lily saw my face. “I can be your go between and make sure you get the money,” she says.
“How did you know?”
“Police came yesterday asking questions about you. They thought you have a dognapping scheme going on.”
So much for earning money that way. “What did you tell them?”
“The truth. You’re better at finding lost dogs than anybody in town. That you’re providing a service to this city and should be paid.”
Lily is good people. “Thanks. Now I really hate to ask you for a favor.”
She straightens and looks at me as if I just told her the sky is orange. “In the two years I’ve known you, you’ve never asked for anything. If I can, I will. Ask away.”
I blink at her a moment. Didn’t she want anything in exchange? She insists not and I make an unusual request which she grants. Did I tell you Lily’s good people? Well she is.
After a stop at the pawn shop, I take my littles to Pennypack Park—a tiny snake of green in the middle of the city. I find a nice safe place for them, ordering them to stay quiet. They’re handy against one intruder, but against five, one of them is bound to get hurt.
I return to the wolfhound about an hour after sunset. He’s alert with his nose sniffing the cold breeze. Somehow, I know the professor and his goons aren’t going to arrive with the wind, so I sit close to Logan and keep watch downwind. The others are nowhere in sight. That homeless sixth sense accurate once again.
As I wait, my heart is chasing its tail, running fast and going nowhere. It’s not too long before five black shapes break from the shadows and approach. They’re easy to see in the bright moonlight.
My insides turn gooey, but I draw in a breath. Nobody messes with mine. Not anymore. I stand as they slink toward me. No, I’m not being dramatic. Slink is the perfect word. Five big brutes just like Logan. Massive jaws and shaggy hair. The professor isn’t in sight, but a tawny wolfhound leads the group (give him two pairs of loafer’s and he’d fit the part of the professor).
Now you’re gonna to tell me something like this just doesn’t happen, and I’d agree with you every other night. But not tonight.
The pack fans out, and I’ve seen enough street fights to know if they surround me I’m dead. I raise the gun, aim, and fire. I’m a pretty good shot. Thanks in part to my foster father. Unlike all the others before him, he’d taught me a few life skills and I’d loved him until . . . well, you know.
The tranquillizer dart hits the shoulder of the far left hound. (If you thought I’d shoot them with bullets, then you haven’t been paying attention).
I squeeze off a couple more darts, picking off two more wide receivers before the remaining two catch on and rush me. Dropping the gun, I palm a dart in one hand and pull the silver knife I reclaimed from the pawn shop, exchanging it for the lost professor’s gun.
Then it’s all hair, claws, and teeth. The wolfhounds are fast and it’s like fighting a giant yet silent dust devil. I jab the dart into dog flesh and strike, stab, and slash at anything I can reach with the knife. The tawny grabs my wrist with his teeth while his last goon is overcome by the tranquilizer.
Tawny bites through my skin like it’s paper. I yell and drop the weapon. He pushes me over and stands on my chest. Breathing with his weight on me is an effort, and my heart lodges in my throat. He stares at me for a second with regret in his gaze, giving me just enough time to thrust my arm between his sharp teeth and my exposed neck.
A bit of surprise flashes in his black eyes as he latches on. I’d coated my sleeves and pants with Tabasco sauce. Useful for keeping pups from chewing things. In this case, not so smart as the burn makes Tawny angrier. The pressure increases in my forearm and I’m convinced my bone’s about to snap in two when the brute is knocked off.
Logan and Tawny roll together. And the fight’s no longer silent as they growl and snarl. I worry about Logan’s shoulder as I dive for the tranquilizer gun. Lily showed me how to wrap up his leg to support his weight, but it’s not much.
I’m outta darts. With Logan injured, the fight isn’t fair. Most things aren’t. And I guess that’s the only way Tawny can win.
I spot a glint just when Tawny pins Logan. Sweeping up the knife, I lunge toward Tawny and bury the blade in his hindquarters. Up to the hilt.
He yelps and bucks. Logan presses his advantage and regains his feet. In a blur, Logan strikes and silences Tawny. Logan’s muzzle is dripping with blood. I meet his gaze and can tell by his expression that he’s sickened and sad. He’s not a killer, but Tawny forced him to be one. Why couldn’t he just leave Logan alone?
I’d asked my foster father the same thing. He said I was too irresistible so I ran away when I turned sixteen, removing the temptation. I’d thought I was smart, but no one knows about his inability to resist. It’s been two years. What if he has a new foster child? Staring at Tawny’s ripped throat, I realize a person has to stay and fight until there’s a clear winner and loser or else you’re problems don’t ever go away.
The burning pain in my arm snaps me back to my current problems. I inspect the damage. Ragged, bleeding flesh too mangled for eighty-proof and Band-Aids, but I don’t have another option. Once Logan’s cleaned up—his stitches have ripped again—and hidden under the blanket, I hurry to the Humane Shelter.
Lily’s working late and I suspect she’s there for me. She sends a couple volunteers to pick up the sleeping wolfhounds. I return the tranquilizer gun.
“A pack of wild dogs that are all the same breed is so unusual,” she says. “Usually they’re a bunch of mongrels.” She slaps her hand over her mouth. “I didn’t mean—”
I smile. “I know. Nothing wrong with mongrels.”
Lily sees my arm and insists I go to the emergency room. I almost laugh. Invisible on the streets, I’m nonexistent in an ER. No money. No insurance. They’d fix a cockroach’s broken leg before attending to me. I lie and say I’ll go, but she sees right through me. Despite my protests, she escorts me to the ER and stays until I’m seen. The ER doctor gives me thirty-two stitches. Funny how the number of stitches is always reported like it’s a source of pride.
By the next day, my life returns to, well, not normal, but back to the same—taking care of the pups. Logan is healing faster than me and eating like a horse. I feed him my share most days. Don’t matter to me, my stomach’s upset anyways. Tomorrow—one week after I found Logan—I’m gonna tell the authorities about my foster father.
I’d rather face a pack of wild dogs, but I’m determined to grab the man by the throat and not let go, finally doing what I should have done two years ago.
Five days later, Logan takes off and doesn’t return. The hurt cuts deep and reminds me of how I’d felt moving from one foster home to another. Crazy lady that I am, I’d been talking to him about the police and the lawyers and the questions. No one is quick to believe me, and I don’t have much proof so it’s been rougher than I thought. Somehow telling my problems to Logan made the whole ordeal bearable.
But he’s gone, and my resolve to go after my foster father wavers. But there is also a tiny bit of relief inside me. Keeping the wolfhound fed was hard. And with one of life’s little twists of fate and timing, I find the missing black Lab after Logan left. Lily handles the reward money. Without Logan to feed, there’s plenty of money to keep my pups in Science Diet.
Three—maybe four weeks after the night I helped Logan, a stranger enters the parking lot. Wearing blue jeans and a leather motorcycle jacket, he doesn’t hesitate, heading right for my bridge. His black hair hangs in layers to his shoulders, and his stride is familiar.
I’m searching my memories to place him when my pups race toward him. Good. Except they don’t bite him. They dance around, tails wagging and yipping in excitement. He crouches down and pets them! I grab my bat.
He glances up as I swing and dodges the bat with ease. Strike one. I pull back for another.
“Mongrel, stop,” he says. “It’s me.”
I freeze and study him. He’s a few years older than I am, about six feet tall and lean. Good looking enough to attract the girls. His gray eyes don’t belong in the face of a man though.
He opens his jacket, and pulls his collar down, showing me an almost healed scar on his right shoulder. “Fifteen stitches.”