Unleashed (3 page)

I had forgotten that she was leaving to spend two weeks in her hometown of Findlay, Wisconsin. It is something I’m dreading, since the last time she went back there she wound up taking a job as the local police chief, and it split us up for six months. Those were six long months.

“Do you really need to go?”

“No, I don’t need to, I want to,” she says. “I want to remain connected to my friends there. You know that.”

“It could snow.”

She nods. “Yes, there’s always that danger, scary as it is. So I’ll bring boots, and maybe even gloves.”

“When are you going?” I ask, even though I know the answer.

“Wednesday morning.”

“I’ve got an idea; I meant to talk to you about it,” I say. “Let’s get married on Tuesday night. We’ve been putting it off long enough. And there’s no Knick game that night, which is God’s way of telling me that it’s the perfect time.”

Laurie turns to Tara, who is busy sniffing her way through the park. “Tara, have you ever heard anything as beautiful as that?”

Tara doesn’t say anything; she might well be too choked up to bark.

“It’s every girl’s dream, Andy, but it might be a little spontaneous for me. Forty-eight hours isn’t much time to send out the invitations, rent the hall, plan the menu, get a dress … all that would take at least three days.”

“Okay, you’re absolutely right, forget the wedding. Been there, done that. Let’s just go on a honeymoon instead. We’ll go south where it’s warm, lie on the beach, drink piña coladas with little umbrellas in them, do that thing where you sneak under that bar … what’s that called?”

“Limbo.”

“Right, limbo. I’m not sure if I told you, but I came in third in the state limbo finals in high school. I’ll teach you how to do it.”

“So not Wisconsin?” she asks.

“I’m not ruling it out, as long as they have sunny beaches, piña coladas, little umbrellas, and limbo.”

“I don’t think Wisconsin is going to work. They don’t have any of that, especially in March,” she said.

“I’m willing to be flexible,” I say. “The little umbrellas are not a deal breaker.”

“I’m going to Wisconsin, Andy. But I’m not going to stay there this time. I’m coming home to you.”

“That’s what you said last time.”

She grabs my hand and says, “Come on. Let’s go home and you can give me a going-away present.”

Barry Price did very well for himself. Sam had already known that, but sitting in his home, he realized it then more than ever. The previous night at the party, the large crowd of people seemed to prevent him from getting the full scope of the place. It was spectacular.

So was Denise, who seemed to get better looking every time he saw her. Combined with smart and funny, as it was in her case, it formed a deadly combination. Being with her didn’t seem weird at all; it was like they picked up right where they left off, but without the making-out part.

She seemed like she wanted to talk, and every time Sam mentioned something about leaving, she poured him another cup of coffee.

At one point, she said, “It’s amazing how much time has passed, Sam. It’s like we knew each other in another lifetime.”

“You were the first girl I kissed,” Sam said. “And I haven’t gotten any better at it since.”

She laughed. “I doubt that’s true. And you taught me a lot.”

“Like what?”

“Well, you taught me how to drink beer.”

He smiled at the memory. “You were a quick learner.”

She got up and went to the kitchen, but this time instead of coming back with more coffee, she brought two open bottles of beer. She handed him one, and they clicked bottles and toasted “old times.”

There seemed to be a loneliness about her, but Sam could have been wrong about that. Judging women’s feelings was not really his specialty.

A couple of times she made vague comments that led Sam to believe that all might not be perfect between her and Barry, which was far from a surprise.

The previous night at the party, they had a rather public argument. It was over something insignificant—Sam thought it was about which wineglasses Denise was using—but even though it was a brief flare-up, it was uncomfortable for the guests.

Altogether, Sam and Denise spent a couple of hours laughing about old times, which always seem a hell of a lot more fun than when they were new times.

It was close to eleven o’clock when Sam finally stood up to leave. A moment later the doorbell rang, and Denise looked worried. “Who could that be?” she asked to no one in particular. Then, “Must be a neighbor. I didn’t buzz anyone through the gate.”

Denise went to the door, and Sam was maybe twenty feet behind her. She opened it, and Sam thought he could see two men standing there, one in a suit and the other in a police uniform.

They were talking softly; Sam couldn’t hear what they were saying. But suddenly Denise shrieked, a piercing sound that Sam instantly knew he would never forget. She then slumped to the floor, sobbing.

Sam ran to her and, along with the two men, helped her to her feet and onto the couch. “What happened?” Sam asked, more of the men than of Denise, who was crying uncontrollably.

The man in the suit answered, “Her husband’s plane crashed.”

“Oh, damn,” Sam said. He wanted to ask if there was any chance that Barry had survived but didn’t want to do so in front of Denise. In any event, based on her reaction to what they had told her, it seemed highly unlikely.

“Who are you?” the suit guy asked.

“I’m a friend of hers and her husband … of Barry. We grew up together.”

“Do they have family nearby?”

Before Sam could answer, people started coming through the door. They must have been neighbors, and Sam figured they had heard Denise’s scream. A total of seven people arrived, and it was left to Sam to tell them what had happened.

They immediately went to Denise to console her, though that seemed impossible at the moment.

Sam felt like he had no role to play there; he clearly was not as close to Denise as the people who had come in. The guy in the suit went over to Denise on the couch and tried unsuccessfully to talk to her. He finally gave his card to one of the neighbors and said something to them that Sam couldn’t hear.

So Sam decided to leave, wishing he could do more but realizing that he couldn’t. He got his coat from the hall closet and walked out without saying anything to anyone. As he got into his car, he saw that the two cops were leaving as well.

The mind sometimes works in strange ways. It wasn’t until Sam was halfway home that he realized he was supposed to have been on that plane.

“Andy, I’ve got to talk to you.” Through my sleep-induced haze, I recognize that it is Sam’s voice.

“Sam, what time is it?”

“Six o’clock. I’m sorry, but I’ve been up all night.”

The stress in his voice is obvious, and I half sit up on one elbow. I can see Laurie do the same. “What’s wrong?” I ask.

“I almost died last night.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m at your house,” he says.

This is not making any sense. “What are you talking about? I’m at my house, and I don’t see you anywhere.”

“I’m in your living room. I didn’t want to ring the bell and wake you up.”

“I’ll meet you downstairs,” I say. “Thanks for not waking me up.”

I quickly update Laurie on the phone conversation, throw on some clothes, and go down to find out what’s going on with Sam. He’s sitting on the couch petting Tara, whose head is in his lap.

“You should lock your door,” he says.

“Not necessary,” I say, pointing to Tara, who seems annoyed that Sam has momentarily stopped petting her. “I’ve got a vicious guard dog.”

Laurie comes down, and we go into the kitchen to get coffee. Sam tells us the entire story from the previous evening. It has clearly left him shaken, and I can’t say that I blame him. Just hitting a dog would be enough to freak me out. But after that he had a friend die, and then a kind of near-death experience that would be the emotional icing on my cake.

I’m not quite sure why Sam is here this early in the morning; maybe he just needs someone to talk to, and he couldn’t wait.

But that turns out not to be the case. “Andy, that dog saved my life.”

“In a way.”

“No, literally. If I hadn’t hit him and stopped, I would have been on that plane.”

“I guess that’s true.”

“Where is the dog now?” Laurie asks.

“At a vet’s office near where it happened.”

“How badly was he hurt?” I ask.

“Pretty bad. I’m not sure if he made it.”

I already have the car keys in my hand. “Only one way to find out.”

We drive out to where Sam thought the accident had taken place, though he couldn’t be sure that he was right. “They said it was a couple of miles up this road,” he says, so we head in that direction. Sure enough, it’s on the left side, a small place called Williams Animal Hospital. A sign in the window advertises “Low-cost spaying and neutering,” and another reveals that they have a twenty-four-hour emergency staff on the premises. That is no doubt why the police brought the dog here.

We go inside, and Sam explains to the receptionist that he had hit the dog, and we want to know its status. The young woman agreeably says that she will check with the veterinarian, and we wait while she goes in the back and does so.

The vet comes out to talk with us. He can’t be more than thirty years old and identifies himself as Dr. Castle. “There was a golden retriever brought in here last night. I assume that’s the dog you’re talking about?”

“A golden retriever?” I ask, feeling like I just got kicked in the stomach. I love all dogs, but the idea of a golden lying by the side of a road in pain is absolutely horrifying.

Sam shrugs and says he has no idea what kind of dog it was; it was dark. “But I’ll know if I see his eyes; they looked right through me.”

The vet lets us go into the back and leads us to a dog lying peacefully on a blanket in a run, which is essentially a large cage. There is another blanket lying over him, concealing his back end. There’s no doubt; it’s a golden.

The dog is alert and staring at us, and I immediately know what Sam meant about his eyes. He doesn’t move any part of his body; I don’t know if he’s unable to or not.

“That’s him,” Sam says. “No doubt about it.”

“What’s wrong with him?” I ask.

“I’m pretty confident he has a broken rear left leg,” Dr. Castle says. “Other than that he seems to be in surprisingly good shape.”

“So you’re going to do surgery?” I ask.

Dr. Castle hesitates for a moment and then says, “I wouldn’t think so.”

“Why not?” asks Sam.

“He’s not a young dog. Based on the condition of his teeth I would estimate he’s six or seven years old. There were no tags on him and no identifying chip. In this condition, at this age, he’s not likely to be adopted, so … if no one claims him I would think we would be instructed to euthanize him.”

Sam had been leaning over and petting the dog, but when he hears this he jumps as if someone shoved a hot poker up his ass. “Are you out of your mind?” he yells.

“It’s not my decision,” Dr. Castle says, backing up a little.

“You’re damn right it’s not!”

It’s a rare situation involving a dog’s welfare that I’m the calm, rational one, but that’s the role I assume here. I’m able to do that because there is no doubt that the end to this play has already been written. We are not leaving this place without this dog.

“We’ll take the dog and pay for any charges you’ve incurred,” I say.

Dr. Charles shakes his head. “I’m sorry, but the procedure is that we first have to wait five days for an owner to possibly claim him.”

“So you’d let him lie there with a broken leg for five days?” Sam asks. “How would you like it if I tried that on you?”

I don’t think I’ve ever seen Sam this upset.

“We’re going to amend the procedure in this case,” I say. “Here’s what’s going to happen. We’ll take him, and if the owners show up, you can refer them to me. I’m an attorney; I’ll leave my card with your receptionist.”

“But—”

I cut him off. “If that doesn’t work for you, you can report to the police that we stole him, and I’ll tie you up with so many lawsuits and depositions, you’ll want to self-euthanize. Are we clear?”

He doesn’t respond “Crystal,” but it turns out that we’re so clear that he lends us a stretcher to take the poor dog out to my car. Goldens are remarkably stoic, If I was in the pain that he is probably in, I’d be calling for my mommy.

We take him to my vet in Paterson, who is also board-certified in surgery. He X-rays him and tells us that it is a significant break but one that can be repaired, and he will do so this afternoon.

On the way out we stop at the reception desk, and I tell Julie to put the charges on my account. Since this vet treats all of our foundation dogs, my account is roughly equivalent to the GDP of Bulgaria.

“No way, Andy,” Sam says. “He’s my dog; I’m paying.”

“Does he have a name?” Julie asks.

Sam nods. “Crash.”

Barry Price’s death is a big media story. Certainly not Michael Jackson big or Princess Diana big or even Steve Jobs big, but it makes the evening newscasts. He was an important businessman, the principal owner of a hedge fund with many billions in assets. That, plus the fascination that the public always seems to have with plane crashes, has deemed it worthy by the media.

The circumstances are somewhat unusual. Price was a very experienced pilot, and his plane was modern and fully equipped. It had been serviced just that morning, with no problems found, though of course that doesn’t preclude the possibility of mechanical failure.

There were no radio signals from Price indicating trouble, which led to some speculation that he might have had a heart attack or for some reason suddenly lost consciousness. The plane came down in some trees, actually bounced off them, and Price’s body was thrown clear before the subsequent crash and explosion. That was fortunate for the investigation, if not for the pilot.

I haven’t said anything to Sam, but I find it at least somewhat curious that a man died a violent death the day after he asked Sam if he could make a connection on his behalf to a criminal attorney. At the very least it’s a coincidence, a phenomenon that I do not believe in.