The Dog That Saved Stewart Coolidge (21 page)

T
HE FOLLOWING
MORNING
, Hubert seemed none the worse for wear. Stewart was careful not to pat the spot of his injection, but it was apparent that the dog had all but forgotten, or perhaps forgiven, Stewart for the indignities he had made Hubert suffer through the day before.

His shift at the Tops Market did not begin until ten that morning, so he woke a little later than normal. He drank his first mandatory cup of coffee in the dark, the outside illumination matching the inside of the apartment. Hubert was up, of course, and sat at the foot of the chair where Stewart sat, waiting patiently until he finished that odd-smelling beverage and put on shoes.

Shoes meant “Walk” to Hubert.

Stewart grabbed a jacket and looked for Hubert's leash.

It was nowhere to be found.

Then Stewart remembered—he had taken it with them on their visit to the vet's office and he must have left in Lisa's car. He made his way quietly down the steps, telling Hubert to walk softly.

Rats. Lisa must be working the early shift today.

Lisa's car was not in the driveway.

Stewart bent down to Hubert just inside the downstairs door.

“Hubert, I don't have your leash today. If we go for a walk, will you promise to stay right next to me and not run off? Promise?”

Hubert looked up at him with wide, innocent eyes, as if attempting to assure him that whatever it was he was requesting, Hubert, being a good dog, would do his best to accommodate him.

“Okay. You stay beside me. We need to do this quick because the sun is coming up and we don't want people to see you—not just yet.”

Stewart and Lisa had discussed having Hubert “come out,” as it were, once they figured things out. In one of their plans, Stewart would offer complete restitution for the lost merchandise and they would purchase the necessary dog license from the city and make sure pets were allowed in their building.

“But we can't do that now. Not just yet,” Stewart said, summing things up. “We have to think this through. Maybe we broke some laws we don't even know about—and neither of us can afford big fines, right?”

“Right,” Lisa replied. “We'll figure out something.”

Hubert and Stewart walked together on the sidewalk, heading away from town. The sun was higher than Stewart thought it would be, so, in essence, the pair was out in broad daylight. That was something Stewart had avoided most of the time.

Better to be cautious.

But they could be seen—or, more accurately, Hubert could be seen and identified by anyone out walking, or driving slowly. Anyone, that is, who was observant and on the lookout for criminals.

Criminal dogs.

And then it happened. Something Stewart had tried to avoid and shield Hubert from.

A Chevy Cavalier, speeding toward them, slowed down, just a little, then a lot.

Drivers often slowed down for people with dogs, not knowing what that dog might do at the last moment.

The Cavalier appeared vaguely familiar.

Then Stewart recognized it from the parking lot of Tops Market. It was always parked in the farthest row of spots, in order “to make room for the people who pay our salaries.”

The Cavalier bucked and squealed to a stop, as best as a decades-old Cavalier could do—a well-used car with mediocre brakes to start with. The sudden stop caused the vehicle to fishtail and the rear end of the car swung farther out into the street, narrowly missing a parked Ford Escape, its back tires actually smoking a little from the stop.

It's Mr. Arden! I knew I recognized that car.

Mr. Arden, already dressed in his standard heavily starched white manager's smock, leaped out of the car, pointing, gesturing wildly, and screeching, “It's the bandit dog. It's the bandit dog!”

Stewart had seldom, if ever, heard such a high-pitched screech, almost as if Mr. Arden had been inhaling helium just before he spoke.

“Stewart! He's right there! Catch him! Noooooow!”

Hubert looked up at Stewart, obviously confused, and Stewart could see a deep anxiety form in the dog's eyes. Hubert's face reflected something nearly overpowering to him, something deep and frightening.

“Hubert!” Stewart said and lurched for his collar.

And that was when Hubert, against his better judgment, took off like a wild animal, racing away, his paws barely touching the ground as he ran. Stewart took off after him, calling his name, running as fast as he could, losing ground with every step.

I need to get more food. I need more food.

The screaming and the squealing tires and the pounding feet in pursuit spurred Hubert's nearly involuntary, automatic, flee-or-fight, instinctual response. Actually, it was less instinctual and more learned behavior. He had experienced all those actions and sounds and smells before—many times.

The noise and the terror and the anger and the pursuit reminded him of those long-buried memories, the memories that were seared into his mind and scarred onto his body.

Screaming is followed by hitting and hitting is followed by hunger and more hitting. And hunger. A long time of pain and hunger, but mostly hunger.

The terror of those memories drove Hubert faster and faster, and he did not even slow down until he came upon the automatic doors of the Tops Market.

Mr. Arden, back in his car, followed Stewart as he ran, swerving in and around cars and other obstacles.

“He's your dog? How could you?”

Stewart did not answer, just panted, sucking in as much air as he could. He had not jogged, or run, since high school, probably. His sides already began to ache, after only three blocks.

“He's your dog? I don't believe it.”

Stewart turned on Maple and Mr. Arden squealed his Cavalier around the corner, still shouting through the open passenger window.

“Were you holding out for a bigger reward? Is that it? Money is what drove you and your criminal dog friend?”

Stewart grabbed at his left side.

“No.”

“That's extortion, isn't it, Stewart? Or maybe blackmail.”

Stewart did not answer.

“Whatever it is, you are in serious trouble right now, mister. Serious trouble. Both of you.”

And they both came to a gradual stop as they saw Hubert, now just a blaze of black-and-white dog, tear past them on the other side of the street, headed back to his home, to Stewart's home.

Stewart gasped one more time, then turned and ran back toward home.

“Trouble! You're in for it now.”

Mr. Arden continued to rant until Stewart could no longer make out the words over his panicked breathing.

Hubert was inside Stewart's apartment, sitting in the corner of the small living room. He had hung his head down in obvious reaction to the bad thing he had just done and was awaiting, without whimpering or trembling, the punishment that was certain to follow.

But at least he now had food stored, under that flat, soft thing. He had a stack of rawhide bones. They would not be enough to stave off all hunger, but they would be enough to keep him alive. And he was pretty certain that the Stewart person wouldn't take them from him.

Maybe the Stewart person didn't even know where Hubert had hidden them. After all, they had been there for a long time, and the Stewart person did not move them or take them.

Stewart burst into the apartment, panting, gasping for air.

Hubert tried not to whimper, but he did, just a little. He did not like being hit. Stewart was not carrying a strap or a piece of wood, and for that Hubert was grateful.

Stewart walked over to Hubert. Hubert lowered his head even farther, his nose almost touching the ground. He let a soft whimper escape. He didn't want to whimper because that showed weakness and Hubert was not a weak dog, but he couldn't help it—not this time.

Stewart took several more deep breaths.

He knelt down in front of Hubert.

Then he put his arms around Hubert's neck. That surprised Hubert.

No one ever touched him, gently touched him—before they began hitting.

“Hubert, I don't know why you went to the store again. But it's okay. You don't know that it's wrong. It's okay. I'll protect you. I'll make sure nothing bad happens to you. I promise, Hubert. I promise.”

Hubert softened when he realized that there would be no hitting today—only nice, calm words. He wasn't sure what they all meant, but his Stewart person seemed to be kind, even when bad things happened.

That's what a person in a pack would do. Maybe Stewart finally sees. Maybe he is tired of being lost. This is the way it all should be. He has to see that. He has to know that now.

Hubert looked up into Stewart's face. He could see worry and confusion and tiredness and…well, he could see peace—or almost peace.

He must know. Almost.

Then he leaned his head on Stewart's shoulder and pressed against him and hoped that this moment would never have to end.

Even though they both knew that it would.

Neither Stewart nor Hubert heard the car pull into the driveway. Perhaps Hubert heard it, but he was paying more attention to being hugged by Stewart than monitoring events outside. Stewart and Hubert both looked up as they heard the footsteps on the stairs outside.

The knock sounded more official, and more firm, than any knock Stewart, or Hubert, had yet heard.

Stewart sort of, almost, knew who it was and why he was here.

Who else could it be? Much too loud for Lisa and much too determined to be the landlord.

Stewart rose and slowly walked to the door. When he opened it, there stood one of Wellsboro's finest, a portly, older policeman who wore a
LT. QUINN
nameplate pinned above his left pocket.

Hubert did not move, but Stewart heard him whimper.

Stewart stepped back and Lieutenant Quinn took two steps inside. Then he shook his head, almost as if in disbelief at what he was being forced to do that morning.