Rachel Alexander 04 - Lady Vanishes

complete circle. It wasn’t just that he was out, which for a dog, except when it’s raining, is always preferable to being in. It was more than that.
    He headed right for the back of the garden, to the southwest comer. Not knowing why, I followed him to find out.
    It was Jackson, not stretching skyward and being a tree. He was folded into himself, looking more like a stone, looking unbelievably small for such a tall man. Sitting on the ground, knees bent, head bowed so that I couldn’t see his face, arms limp at his sides, his hands encrusted with dirt, lying palms-up on the bricks that covered the garden floor, he was immobile, not even looking up when Dashiell wedged his big head next to his face and began to lick his cheek.
    I crouched in front of him, putting the scissors down on the brick ledge.
    “Jackson?”
    There was no reply.
    When I reached forward and lifted his chin, I saw that he was crying.
    I leaned forward onto my knees and put my arms around him, and Jackson let me hold him, arms still at his side, his head leaning on my shoulder. I rocked him gently for the longest time. When I pulled back to see if he’d lift his head and look at me, I noticed that Dashiell was no longer there.
    It was the noise of his tags that made me look. And another sound—his nails scraping against something hard. Dash was at the center of the back wall, in a space between two round pots of flowers, digging at the bricks.
    “Leave it,” I told him, but he didn’t seem to hear me. I let go of Jackson and went over to Dashiell to stop him.
    Looking down, I saw that the dirt all around where he was trying unsuccessfully to dig up the bricks was darker and looser than the compact, sandy-looking dirt a foot or so away. I crouched and quite easily lifted up a brick, then a second one, setting them off to the side.
    Dashiell pushed his way in now that there was an opening and dug some more, the dirt flying backward as he worked. Two more bricks came loose. With that, he dug at the dirt, and I could see his nostrils moving, taking in the scents coming up from the ground.
    “Back,” I told him.
    This time he paid lip service to my command. He took the smallest possible step back. His forehead squinched with concern, his head hanging over the hole, Dashiell was pressed against my side, his eyes on the ground.
    I brushed away the dirt with my hands and felt something hard and smooth in the hole, grasping it with my fingers and pulling it up. It was Venus’s missing bookend, and even in the moonlight I could see two things: the brownish red dried blood on its base, and the green paint at the top.
    When I turned back to where Jackson had been, he wasn’t there. Concerned, I stood, bumping into him. He had been standing right behind me. I hadn’t heard him, but there he was, practically on top of me and tall as a tree.
    With one hand, he was reaching out for what I was holding.
    In the other, he held the scissors.

Chapter 25
    Come Here, I Said

    The garden lights came on, and Jackson blinked.
    “Are you having trouble deciding?” Homer asked. “Some greens, I thought. And a little touch of color.”
    He stopped when he noticed Jackson.
    “What are you doing out here at this hour?” he said. As if he expected an answer.
    I’m not sure why, but I bent and dropped the bookend back into the hole.
    “Dashiell began to dig. Damn dog must think he’s on the beach or something,” I said, pushing the dirt back over the bookend with my hands and quickly replacing the bricks. I stood then and tamped them down with my feet.
    Homer was still in the doorway. I took Jackson’s hand and led him with me.
    “Give those to Homer,” I said, pointing to the scissors.
    “He’s going to cut some flowers for Venus’s office, make it look real pretty for when she comes back.”
    Homer reached forward and took the scissors.
    “I’ll walk Jackson to his room while you do the flowers. You know what she likes better than I do.”
    Homer smiled. “That I do,” he said.
    “You know, I bet Jackson could use a cup of tea,” I said, as if I were talking to Homer. But I wasn’t. “Should I make you a cup, too?” I asked, turning back now.
    “I have to do the bed check first, Rachel. Everything’s off tonight, everything’s late, because of that extra job. If I’d have done the bed check when I always do, I’d have known Jackson here wasn’t in his bed.”
    “He will be very soon. But first, we’ll go sit in the kitchen for a