Bloodlines

drums, a dented blue dumpster, and, around the rear of the auto body shop, a high fence of heavy wire mesh. I pulled into the field, turned the Bronco around, and was just starting to jolt back in the direction of Boston Road when a loud engine started up and a set of bright headlights came on in the fenced-in area behind Rinehart’s. I stopped the car and watched. A section of the wire fence j turned out to be a gate. Someone must have opened it while I was turning the Bronco around. An oversize dark van with no rear windows—a panel truck, I guess it’s called—backed out. The driver’s door opened. My high beams caught the tight jeans of a young guy with a good body. Parts and service, I thought. Truth in advertising. I watched him swagger to the gate, close it, and start back to the van. He wore a baseball cap on backward and a denim jacket with fleece around the collar.
    He moved well, and his face was old-movie handsome.
    He looked a little like a definitely oily James Dean—not that I have anything against greasy vitality, of course.
    But he veered to face my headlights and broke the spell. Even over the Bronco’s engine and the loud roar of the van, his voice was loud, metallic, and inexplicably enraged: “Get the fuck out of here!”
    Alaskan malamutes love people, of course, but every once in a while, their hackles rise at a tone of voice, a gesture, or maybe only a faint scent of something evil in the air. In the back of my car, Rowdy stirred. I could almost hear the hair rise along his back. To my amazement, he gave a single deep, soft growl. Rowdy is the friendliest dog I’ve ever known. He absolutely never growls at strangers. Even so, I kept the windows closed, the doors locked, and my mouth shut. I tore down that rutted service road, headed home, and didn’t look back. Rowdy hadn’t been growling at a stranger. He’d been talking to me. He never speaks unless he has something to say. And he never lies.
     

21
     

     
    When I arrived home, the burly, shrouded figure of Kevin Dennehy was pacing the sidewalk. Although Kevin considers our neighborhood his responsibility, he doesn’t actually walk a beat along Appleton and Concord, and if he did, he wouldn’t wear a torn sweatshirt and a pair of worn-out summer shorts over a set of Lifa polypropylene long underwear topped by a ragged scarf and a half-unraveled watchman’s cap and bottomed by a pair of million-dollar athletic shoes. Should you happen to notice him there, don’t be alarmed—he’s just cooling down after a long run.
    As I was opening the tailgate, Kevin lumbered up and said, “Dog training?”
    “No, for once,” I said. “I’ve been, uh, looking at vans. A Toyota van.”
    “Yeah? That’ll cost you.”
    “It’s used,” I said.
    “Toyota, huh?”
    “Yes.”
    “You got something against Ford all of a sudden? Or Chevy?”
    “Since you mention it,” I said, “I do have something against General Motors. Crash tests with dogs. You want the details?”
    Rowdy and Kimi bounded onto the driveway and began sniffing around to find out who’d done what where while we’d been gone.
    “You know,” Kevin told me solemnly, “if you’re not careful, one of these days you’re going to turn into one of these animal rights nuts.”
    “Kevin, you know something? In China, they eat live newborn baby mice. By their standards, you’re an animal rights nut, okay?”
    “You’re in a great mood tonight.” He kicked one of the rear tires of the Bronco. “Car trouble?”
    “No, not really. It’s, uh, the mileage is getting up, and the interior...”
    “Yeah,” Kevin agreed. “Smells like dogs.”
    I corrected him. “Only in wet weather.”
    “Hey, what’d they offer you for it? On a trade?”
    “No one looked at it,” I said. “Rowdy, get your nose out of that this minute! Leave it!”
    “Well, watch out,” Kevin said. “Before you let ’em look at it, get it cleaned up, and don’t bring up the mileage. Some of these sharks... Hey, where you been looking?”
    “In Westbrook,” I said slowly and deliberately. “Rinehart Motor Mart. Joe Rinehart.”
    I was playing a hunch. Missy had come from Puppy Luv. Missy’s dam, Icekist Sissy, belonged to Rinehart, who had evidently leased her to the breeder, Walter Simms. Rinehart was a USDA-licensed puppy broker. If Kevin had been going over the paperwork at Puppy Luv, he’d probably seen Rinehart’s name. Kevin certainly Wouldn’t volunteer any information about