Retribution (12 page)

The golden retriever shook himself vigorously in pleasure. He looked up guiltily at John and John sighed, answering, "You're right, bud. We're both goners." The dog, however, could be certain of his reception.

He was in the process of removing his baseball cap and running his fingers through his hair with his free hand when the carved oak door opened abruptly. Jagger pulled the harness out of his hand as he bounded inward, slid to a stop on the parquet flooring in the foyer, and gently leaned on his mistress' leg, quivering in contained happiness.

No less was the look of joy on her face as she rubbed his ears and then glanced up at John.

Charlie made an odd face. "I can't thank you enough for taking him. My mother would have just left him, I think. And Ollie— the man who owns the Peppermill Gallery— would have been beside himself. I don't know what would have happened to him!"

"Any time," he got out. He ran his fingers around his baseball cap.

Jagger sat on Charlie's foot and whined at Ruby.

She smiled faintly. "How about we start over? Hi. I'm Charlie Saunders. I limp a lot, I used to paint, and I have this terrific dog."

His heart did a funny skip beat in his chest and he coughed slightly to hide the fluster he felt. He took the hand she held out.

"Won't you come in? I have a brunch for a small kingdom in the kitchen, with my mother's orders to eat all of it. You'll save my life if you're hungry."

"I… ah…"

"Please. It's the least I can do for inconveniencing you last night." She gave that lopsided smile. He felt his objections go sliding off in his chest somewhere. He saw that she leaned on the door to steady herself and quickly stepped in.

"I'd appreciate that. Besides, I'd like to talk to you about Jagger."

"All right."

He put his arm out, gently and discreetly nudging the aforementioned dog out of the way, and Charlie shifted her weight to him. She smelled of soap and something else, very faint, he couldn't identify. Something herbal, but light and refreshing.

She talked to the dog all the way into the kitchen, and he found himself grinning widely at the silliness of her words and tone, much as Jagger was doing. A small round oak table sat in a nook that overlooked a wide green yard and glass doors leading to them. One of the chairs had a white dish towel wrapped about its back rungs. At a word from Charlie, Jagger gripped the dish towel and tugged the chair away from the table's edge so she could sit.

The table was laden with goodies. A basket full of freshly baked muffins, their aroma filling the air, sat in the center. A silver chafing dish with serving spoon laid over it sat next to it, and a small round silver casserole on a hot pad was nestled next to a pot of jam. A carafe of what looking to be freshly squeezed orange juice reigned next to faintly blue-colored juice glasses.

Charlie grinned. "You just missed the delivery truck."

He reached for expensive-looking paper plates and silverware, setting her place first and then his before sitting down. "You weren't kidding. This is enough to feed an army."

She flushed as though slightly embarrassed. "The delivery service won't deliver for less than four, so…" She spread her hand over the dishes. "That's what Mom ordered. I also told her you were bringing Jagger back. She wanted to be sure you were fed, too."

He opened the chafing dish. Slices of crisp bacon and patties of browned, spicy sausage lay on doilies, along with four slabs of thick ham. The smell made him instantly ravenous, and Jagger whined slightly, as though affected the same way. He looked at Charlie.

"Bacon, sausage, or ham?"

She held out her plate. "Bacon and sausage, please."

He grinned. "Good, 'cause I'm having all three." He served her with pleasure. She opened the casserole dish where creamy scrambled eggs lay nestled over cooked spinach and chives. For a few minutes, no one talked as they passed the muffins and cold butter back and forth, poured orange juice, and divvied up the eggs. He found another serving dish hidden under the napkins and it yielded country style potatoes.

Charlie sneaked a potato wedge down to Jagger before diving into her eggs, then she made an appreciative sound and rolled her eyes.

He had already devoured a blueberry muffin by then, and sliced off a sliver of what had to be genuine Virginia smoked ham. He sat back for a moment, savoring the ham.

"This is good—"

"Excellent food—" they blurted together, and then Charlie began to laugh.

Jagger sat at alert attention by her side as she slipped a small piece of bacon down to him. "I'll have to ask Mom where this place is."

"Do that, and let me know. It beats the local fast food hands down." He sat back, poured himself some coffee from a white thermal pitcher, and inhaled the rich fragrance of good, ordinary java. He drank it half down and beamed in satisfaction.

Charlie fussed a moment over a piece of bacon, doing more crumbling of it than eating, and he sensed that the time had come for them to talk. He looked at her and smiled. "Ready?"

She closed her eyes as if bracing herself, before looking at him. "What is it about Jagger?"

"You know he stood guard over you. It was hard to get to you to help you."

"Isn't he supposed to do that?"

"He is supposed to follow my command to cease when I give it."

"And he didn't?" She quirked an eyebrow.

"Not at first. He was very confused and upset. Charlie, a scared dog can hurt himself or someone else. Someone wanted to use a stun gun on him— it could have killed him. Plus, if you had been in cardiac arrest, we couldn't have gotten to you easily."

"But that's the point, isn't it? No one is supposed to be able to get to me."

"On command."

"I didn't have time to give a command… or rescind it." She frowned as she picked up a muffin and opened it, steam escaping, so she could butter it. "What do you suggest?"

"A refresher on his basic training, what he was meant to do."

"The institute won't be happy."

"He's too good a dog to ruin." He refilled his coffee mug and poured some for her. She lightened it with cream, but took no sugar. He watched her and looked away before she could notice him taking her in. The buffer zone she set up with just a faint coolness of her expression and tone had dropped into place again, but not as severely as before.

Charlie thought a moment and put her hand gently on Jagger's head. "Could you do it?"

"I don't know what methods they used. I would probably confuse him more and that would do the opposite of what he needs right now."

She nodded, the corners of her mouth turned down. "I'll call. I just hate to… lose him… for a couple of weeks." She ruffled the golden's ears. "But, if you think so, I'll do it." She picked at her eggs with a fork, stirring them around a bit, but not eating.

"He's worth it, isn't he?"

"Of course!"

"I'll make the call if you want."

Charlie looked at him, some happiness returning to her blue-gray eyes. "Would you? I know it's an inconvenience, but I can pay for your time."

"I wouldn't charge for this."

"Yes," she said firmly, "you would, and will."

John hesitated a moment, unsure of his footing, then said, "I am not treating you like a charity case."

A certain awareness flickered through her eyes. She picked up a fork, then set it down. "I apologize," she said. "I have a certain cactus-like charm, I'm told."

"Strictly defensive. But you don't need it with me." He put his napkin up on the table. "I won't take money for trying to repair work I did badly the first time. I can't speak for the foundation. They may charge you an arm and a leg for putting him through the motions again."

Her lips moved a little. "And your charm is equally prickly. How soon do you want to start?"

"Any time. But it should be soon."

She nodded, and her golden-brown hair tumbled over her shoulder with the movement. "All right." She smiled at Jagger. "We'll just have to bite the bullet, huh, buddy" The dog put his head on her knee and whuffed at her.

He found himself doing all the eating, as though the somber mood had taken hold of her and would not let go, and he was angry at himself for doing that to her. But it had to be done, he knew it, she knew it, and most of all it seemed the dog knew it.

He polished off a third muffin and looked at her nearly untouched one. It struck him that part of her plainness came from the sharpness of her features. "You should eat a little more."

Charlie had been staring off at the backyard in thought, and looked at him guiltily. "I'm sorry." She picked up the peach cobbler muffin and picked at its edges. "When are you going to take him back? I hate to lose him, even for a day."

He found himself saying, "Well, if they'll let me observe, maybe I can go out to their training site and see what they're doing. Maybe I can come over here for an hour a day and refresh him, and you won't have to give him up."

Her eyes sparkled. "Could you?"

For a look like that, he'd jump the moon. "I can try."

"Oh, please! We'd be miserable without each other."

"I'll call first thing Monday."

Jagger lifted his head from Charlie's knee and looked at Ruby, his jaws opening and his tongue hanging out happily.

Something rattled at the side of the house. He barely caught the sound, but Jagger's ears went up instantly. The dog shot out of the kitchen, his nails scrambling for a hold on the planked flooring as he cornered.

John got to his feet.

"What is it?"

He shook his head. "I don't know."

Jagger let out a sharp warning bark and Rubidoux could hear him charging across the house to the front. "I'll find out."

He was out of the kitchen before Charlie got to her feet and limped after him.

"He never does that."

Then either something was wrong, or the dog's training was beginning to collapse at a greater rate than John had feared. He entered the living room to see Jagger frozen at the large front window, snarling, his paws on the sill, his head thrust through the drapes. The hackles rose on the dog's back and he dropped his snarl to a low, continuous growl.

Ruby snapped his fingers. Jagger immediately dropped, but his eyes kept going back to the front window, and his chest rumbled with that low, warning growl.

As Charlie came in and braced herself on the back of a living room chair, he went to the front door. "Stay inside," he said, "till I see what's upsetting him."

She nodded, her face a little pale.

John canvassed the entire outside of the house first, circling it, to see if anything had been flushed to the sides or back, but found nothing other than a trembling hibiscus shrub, one of its fresh yellow flowers dropped and crushed to the ground. He trotted around to the front window, where he could see Charlie watching.

He knelt down by the soft dirt of the flower bed. A half imprint of a shoe marked the soil.

From the size of it, a man's shoe.

He looked at it a moment, thinking. Broad daylight. Bold, but not unheard of. Perhaps even a utility repairman.

Or perhaps not. He straightened and saw Charlie, still watching him closely. He did not want to alarm her and there was no real reason to call in police.

Only now, he had an excellent reason to try to keep Jagger with her, twenty-four hours a day, as he was meant to be.

He reentered the house and gave Jagger the command releasing him from guard. The dog trotted to Charlie, and she leaned on him gratefully.

He did not want to tell her, but he did. "I found a shoe print out there."

She wavered. "No."

"Probably just a phone or cable man. But I'll make whatever arrangements I can to try to keep Jagger with you."

"Good." She nodded absently, as though her thoughts had suddenly gone elsewhere.

"I can't see calling the police, unless you can think of a reason."

She shook her head quickly. "No, absolutely not." She dug her fingers into Jagger's golden hair.

He did not know her well, not nearly as well as he wanted to, but he knew then she was lying.

She awoke, barefoot and standing, pale moonlight shivering through a slanted shade on the window, brushes in her hand. Charlie looked at them in wonder and touched their bristles, new brushes, never used, their heads still soft and clean, resting in her hands as though she had taken them up to paint again.

The closed-up studio lay in soft gray and dark shadows, various easels and cabinets and tables casting strange shapes around her, muted by the lack of lighting in the night. She never came in here, not even to clean. Someone else, occasionally sent by her mother, did that. Otherwise the door to this studio stayed locked, as shut away from her as the life she had once had. She had converted a third bedroom into a studio at the other end of the house, the only new portion of her home, knocking down walls and extending them, putting in ceiling fans and huge windows and a great long wall which often acted as a kind of work space for the textiles and other media she used now. It was busy and cluttered and well used, that room, spacious, airy, light.

But this room was the part of the house which gathered the best sun and had the view of the cove, and to which the sea breeze came at night without benefit of fan or machine. She had kept it as she had once used it, unknowing, unwanting, untouched.

She trembled. Jagger lay close to her feet, snoring quietly, and she knew that she had been standing on the enclosed porch for a while, at least long enough for him to settle. Yet she had no memory or dream of leaving her bed and walking to the studio, or any hint of the need that drove her to pick up the brushes. She looked at the easel with its canvas, untouched, awaiting her for… how many years? Almost ten.