Retribution (6 page)

Asked for a response to accusations that the neurosurgical team had destroyed a budding genius while saving her life, Dr. Katsume would say only that he, Dr. Clarkson, and the team had done everything they could to save Charlie's life and he was satisfied with the end results. There was nothing physical holding the girl back from painting if that's what she wished to do, once strength and other training rehabilitated her arm and shoulder. "As for artistic expression," Katsume added, "that comes from outside, and we deal only with the flesh."

The phone rang. John answered it on speaker, calling out, "Sentinel Dogs," raising his tone to be heard clearly over the muffled noise of his kennel and the tin echo from the filing cabinets as he worked. The archly feminine voice reaching him hurt as keenly as a kick in the gut.

"John, it's me."

He did not respond. His throat locked up, stopping him in his tracks as cleanly as one of his well trained canines. He stood dumbfounded at the filing cabinet of his one-room office and looked about the somewhat organized clutter, as if he expected to see her.

"It's been a while," she said quietly.

Three months and twenty-one days,
he thought, his damnable brain doing the opposite of his larynx, wheeling in tumultuous thought and emotion.

"Sorry to be bothering you." She cleared her throat. "This is not about us."

"No, John I don't need a dog." And she spoke in that patronizing tone which he hated, reminding him of how bad it had been between them and why he should not have been surprised when she left. "I called because I ran across something today, and I thought you might be interested. That dog you trained, the golden, the one that bothered you so much… well, the young lady and the dog are going to be at an art benefit auction in Laguna tomorrow night. I've e-mailed you the information and address. That's all. Don't make anything out of this call."

"I don't intend to."

"I know you better than that, John." She gave a lilting laugh and hung up, the laugh reminding him of just how good it had been between them once. Laughter and good times and pleasant sex.

His phone took a few seconds to disconnect, buzzing loudly, setting the kenneled dogs off again, barking in chorus to let him know they heard suspicious sounds. He bellowed, "Shut up!" at them, and they quieted down eventually.

He did not know if the golden retriever had been the beginning of the end of their relationship, the cause or the symptom, but Julie was right— the assignment had worried at him a lot, gnawing with sharp teeth at the bone, the core, of him. He closed the file drawer slowly, went to the computer and sat down, looking at the screen saver kaleidoscope for a moment before signing on for his mail.

You don't take a dog like a golden retriever, a dog known for its companionship qualities and temperament, and make a guard dog out of it. It would be like deliberately poisoning its personality, the pearl of its existence. There was a reason certain dogs were used again and again in the business, because they were bred for it, they had the aggressive qualities which could be combined with direction, as well as other qualities. But a golden retriever had never been bred for aggression, controlled or otherwise, and he had accepted the assignment with a ton of misgivings.

Julie had talked him into it because of the money involved, not to save the kennel which had been foundering despite his disability from the police department, but to fund him into another line of work. For retraining, she'd explained again and again, nagging him to go into computer programming for months… and he had finally taken the assignment because he was desperate for that almighty check. He had not, naturally, used the funds to retrain himself, but that was just another step into the downward spiral of their relationship.

Those misgivings had been compounded the moment Jagger had been delivered to his compound— a sleek, smaller-boned golden, agile, with bright caramel eyes and a feathery tail, complete with his little vest proclaiming him to be a companion dog. He had known the dog was a family dog, but not that he had already been finely trained.

John had sworn at the driver. "Jesus Christ, this dog is already trained. What are you people doing?"

The driver had looked at him impassively, shrugging, "I just brought the dog and the check, sir. You want 'em or not?"

Flint, the Alsatian, hurled himself at the wire enclosure, barking in mad alpha domination at the golden who merely looked interested, his tail giving that ambiguous wag which people who don't really know dogs think is a sign of friendliness. It was Jagger's way of saying that he wasn't intimidated… yet.

"You don't take a trained animal like this and reverse it."

The driver rolled his shoulders again and held the leash out.

Jagger looked up at John, and his pink tongue lolled forward a bit in a self-confident pant. Rubidoux looked at the animal, a handsome and happy animal, and his inner self recoiled at the thought, and he wondered if the family was stupid, insane, or desperate.

"Why?"

"Why?" The driver pursed his thick lips in thought a moment. " 'Cause the girl needs protection, sir."

"Whose dog is this?"

"Hers, sir."

John looked from the dog to the driver, who stood in square, thick heaviness, his neck bulging out over the starched collar of his uniform. He looked like a short bull, and whatever his background might have been on the streets or in the barrio, he did not look like he could provide protection, not savvy protection. He might be good for intimidation or brawling, but there was no finesse about him. The driver blinked back at him, dark brown eyes showing just a hint of John's assessment, his swarthy face bland. The eyes remained open and honest.

"You can't do the job?"

The driver blinked slowly. "She lives alone, sir. I drive for the family. But I am just a driver. The dog stays with her all the time." His mouth thinned. "She doesn't want anybody to make a fuss."

"What's the problem?"

"Stalker." His eyes flared momentarily, and a flush came to his full cheeks.

John's stomach knotted a little. The golden whined a bit, growing uneasy at not knowing what was expected of him in the situation, and then shook his head, flapping his ears noisily. He reached for the leash. "All right, I'll do it."

The driver let out a sigh and shoved the envelope at him as well. "Your check is in here. Give me a call when Jagger is ready to be picked up. Feeding instructions are in there, too, plus his command list."

"I'll need at least a couple of weeks."

The driver nodded curtly. "Yes, sir. And…" He paused, already halfway back into the car. "Thank you, sir."

John fingered the envelope, fine, watermarked paper rustling at his touch. Jagger whined again as the car left, not a fearful sound, but just one that showed he was alert to what was happening and that he was uncertain about it. He leaned over and thumped the dog on the ribs.

"Good boy."

Jagger lolled his tongue out again, pleased. The feathery tail gave one quick wave. He knew he was a good dog. That had never been in question.

John Rubidoux remembered laughing in spite of his misgivings.

Jagger had been perhaps one of his most successful failures.

* * *

John slowed the van down, eyeing the procession of expensive vehicles turning into the hillside home and park grounds where the Peppermill Galleries held residence. He flexed his jaw as if he could ease the neck of his tux by doing so, made a right turn to avoid the procession and eased the van into a spot under a blue gum eucalyptus on a side street. Normally not embarrassed by his van, tonight did not seem to be the time to show up flanked by vigilant guard dogs painted by a talented young local mural artist. As he stepped out, the fragrant eucalyptus tree reminded him that the van smelled of dogs and he flicked a few stray hairs off the elbow of his coat.

This was only the third time he could remember wearing a tux. The first was his high school prom, the second three years ago when his sister Lyndel had gotten married. He'd still had a limp then and had to use a cane. A rueful smile pulled the corner of his mouth in memory at that; he still had the cane at home, a handsome black stick decorated with a silver dog's head. Lyndel had bought it especially for the wedding. He hadn't used the cane in the years since, though there were days when his hip hurt badly enough that he should have. He should pull it out of the dark corner of the closet where he kept it and polish the grip.

John lifted his chin yet again, then started uphill in a long-striding clip to the Peppermill grounds. California pepper trees graced the grounds with their long, almost weeping willow type limbs and foliage, their delicate leaves still green from spring rains, tiny flowers beginning to bud. It would not be dark until almost eight, but the wind off the ocean carried a chill touch to it, and he faced into it with enjoyment. Someone had mowed the grounds in diamond patterns, the grass as thick and lush as a baseball park or golf course. The actual mansion was much farther up the hill, almost completely hidden by huge trees which had probably stood there even before the hundred-and-some-year-old house had been built by one of those sailing merchants who had harbored at Dana Point.

The gallery, set just inside the sweeping driveway and gates, had probably been a carriage house and stables once, converted several times over to other structures, and it now looked as if it had never been anything else than what it was that evening: a wood-and-glass gallery poised among the pepper trees. John found a side entrance open and took it, while cars still edged forward slowly onto the grounds, being parked in the lot behind the gallery and, in some cases, along the long circular drive and back down again. He wondered if the lower lawns would be utilized as well before the evening was out. The upper lawns between the gallery and mansion were filled with three large white tents, and he could hear music already.

John put his hand to his pocket to check his ticket. The $100 donation entitled him to a buffet dinner, two champagne or wine drinks, unlimited soft drinks, and an invitation to bid at the silent auction. Everything else would no doubt be an additional charge. The ticket also listed several nonprofit organizations to be benefited, most of them art community oriented, several of them children's art projects. He slipped it back in the breast pocket of the tux. One of the parking valets eyed him as he sauntered along the driveway, then lifted an eyebrow and turned away to accept the keys to a white BMW.

As he neared the gallery, he could see the canvases on the walls and people milling around inside. Along the tents, there were a number of temporary peg-board walls set up, with numerous artworks hung from them. He wondered if this was an annual event and suspected it was, judging by the groups of people who greeted one another with familiarity. He sensed an ulterior motive in Julie's telling him about the event: Get him there to see the dog, and while he was there, perhaps a little elbow rubbing with the well-to-do might help with his networking skills. Surely among all these people, there would be one or two potential clients who needed to augment their security system with a well-trained animal. Or maybe it was just her way of pounding into his head again just how unsuccessful he was.

He snagged a plastic champagne flute as he entered the gallery; no one asked him for a ticket as he joined the crowd inside. He saw a lot of seascapes, from one end of the California coast to the other, including two of the famous Laguna Beach cove, one of which he liked and one of which he didn't. A discreet look showed him that the one he liked was listed at $12,500 and the one he didn't at $27,000. He took a sip of his drink, found the champagne cold, dry, slightly sweet, and incredibly bubbly, and weighed the differences in his mind between the paintings. Finally, with a shrug, he left the gallery and meandered up the hill toward the tents and the open air art gathering which seemed a little less pretentious even if the attendees did not.

The sea breeze was brisker out on the lawns, and the tents billowed a little, but their cloudlike enclosures seemed anchored securely to the dark green grass, and he wondered where the dog was and whether he would even be able to find him among the crowd.

As he entered the first corridor of exhibits, a loud woof caught his attention, and he turned, looking uphill, to see the golden retriever not straining in his harness, but at full attention, his jaws agape in dog greeting, his tail bannering the air. John grinned in spite of himself, then followed the dog's body to the slim yet determined arm keeping him at bay, and saw… not a girl, though they had always called her "the girl," but a young woman holding Jagger. She was not pretty in the face: plain, angled, intense. Elegant satin pants followed long legs up to a slim waistline set off by a vest and a sleek white blouse, a feminine echo of his own tuxedo. She had thick golden-brown hair pulled back and tamed into a kind of knot at her neck, ends curling farther down her back and her eyes were so deep-set he could not see their color.

She frowned at the dog, her gaze sweeping across the area, and he saw a wrongness in her face that gave him pause, before he identified it. One eyelid drooped ever so slightly, sleepily, as did the line of the mouth under it. Stroke, he thought, or some sort of weakness on the right side. That could explain why she'd had the dog to begin with.

Jagger gave a tiny bounce in greeting, front paws off the lawn, settling back down into an eagerness that was almost puppylike. He had filled out a little in the many months since Rubidoux had had him, and he was a handsome specimen of the breed.