Like my world.
Half an hour later, I was in the school gym, helping with my sons’ peewee basketball practice. It was a hoot: short-legged little grubbers charging about like puppies in a pen, lofting impossible shots, blundering out of bounds, fouling one another with glee, having a grand time as suburban dads like myself tried to teach them a few basics along the way.
I’ve never missed a practice or a game, struggling to keep things as normal as humanly possible for the twins as their mother fades out of our lives. But today I was especially eager to be here. The assistant coaches are all part-timers. And one of them, Jerry Landry, is an Algoma County deputy sheriff.
He was at a corner basket, teaching the rudiments of rebounding to a half-dozen half pints, tossing a ball against the backboard so they could scramble for it on the way down, grinning as they knocked each other sprawling.
“Can I talk to you a second, Jerry?”
“Sure. What’s up, Doc? Or should I call you Professor?” He lobbed up another ball, letting it drop into the scrim. A tall, rawboned man, thinning reddish-blond hair, western sideburns, a torn Algoma High sweatshirt, striped uniform slacks, and soiled sneakers. A single dad, divorced. A club I’ll be joining soon enough.
“What are the penalties for killing a dog?”
“Depends on where the dog was and what it was doing. And who did the killing.”
“The dog was on my property—”
“Let me guess, you live in that new Birchcrest subdivision?”
“That’s right. So?”
“So don’t feel like the Lone Ranger, Professor. We’ve had beaucoup complaints about dogs and cats being killed in that neighborhood.”
“What are you doing about it?”
“Not a lot. We’re the sheriff's department, not the pet patrol—Hey! Settle down out there! This is basketball, not Saturday Night Smackdown!”
“You’re telling me some loony’s killing pets and you’re not even trying to find him?”
“No need to,” Landry said evenly. “We know who he is, or think we do. That’s the problem.”
“I don’t understand.”
“That’s because you’re not from here. You moved up here to teach at the college, bought a nice house, probably joke about the local rednecks in the teachers’ lounge, right? But now your dog’s dead. Well, welcome to my world, pal.”
“What are you saying?”
“Probably more than I should. Can we go off the record a minute? Not a citizen beefing to a cop, just two guys talking in a gym?”
“Of course.”
“Okay, here’s the deal. We’re fairly sure the guy killing the animals is Chandler Sinclair. That name mean anything to you?”
“You mean—?”
“Right. Sinclair Paper Mill, Sinclair Timber, the Sinclair Library at the U. The folks who employ about four hundred people in this town. That Sinclair family.”
“And? Because they've got bucks they’re above the law?”
“Nope, not for a second. If Chan runs a stoplight or shoots the mayor, I’ll bust him like any other perp. But since his fat campaign contributions helped get my boss elected, our little force has better things to do than worry about pets disappearing in Chan’s neighborhood.”
“It’s not his neighborhood, it’s mine.”
“It used to be his. All of it. At one time, his family owned most of this town.”
“So what am I supposed to do?”
“Anything you want, Professor. Just don’t expect us to do it for you. Truth is, Chan Sinclair’s not wrapped too tight. All he gives a rip about is taking game with high-tech weapons that probably cost more than my car. When his dad was alive he could control him, more or less, but the old man died last year and now Chan’s off the leash. He’s only got a sister left and he treats her like hired help. You can file a complaint and I’ll have a talk with Sinclair. But even if you could prove he killed your dog, Chan would only pay a fine and it might bring retaliation from Chan or his lawyers. The law's a little different up here for strangers like you and a local guy like Chan. He may be a crazy sumbitch, but he’s our crazy sumbitch.”
“And his plants employ a lot of local men, I understand that. But that doesn’t give him the right to kill people’s pets.”
“Nobody said it did. I’m not telling you to let this go, Professor. If he’d killed my dog, I’d damn sure do something about it. Don’t know a man who wouldn’t. I’m just saying you’d best keep it off the books, if you get my drift. Hey, Jake! Don’t hold the ball like that, they’ll tie you up every time. Swing your elbows, boy, clear yourself some room!”
“That’s a little rough, isn’t it? For grade school?”
“We ain’t just teaching basketball, Prof, we teach life here. And it’s good advice. If you mess with Chan Sinclair, you’d best come down swingin’ your elbows. High and wide.”
Interesting advice. Especially from a cop. After basketball practice, I took the boys out for grease-burgers at McDonald’s. Chose it deliberately, because it has a playroom. The twins had a great time scrambling through the tunnels. And I had time to think.
And what I thought was: This was no time to swing my elbows at Chandler Sinclair or anyone else.
With Janie ill, I had to stay focused and keep things together. I don’t have tenure at Hancock State, my contract runs year to year. The administration has been very understanding about Janie’s illness, but the fact is, our income has been cut in half. I need my job to keep food on the table and to maintain our health insurance. And the Hancock administration is ever so proud of its new Sinclair Library wing.
So I decided to do the prudent thing. The adult thing. I would let it pass. And I did.
Until the next day. When all hell broke loose.
After morning classes, I stopped by the hospice to sit with Janie awhile. She was getting her rubdown, listening without comment while I rattled on about school. I was afraid her silence might indicate pain. And it did. But not the way I thought.
Halfway through the rubdown Janie gave Norma a look, and the woman excused herself. Janie sat up slowly, and turned to face me, squinting against the pain the effort caused her. I reached out to help but she shook her head.
“I had a visitor earlier,” she said coldly. “Yvonne Westbrook, the veterinarian’s wife? She brought me flowers. Thought I might be depressed because of Sparky.”
Damn. “She had no right to tell you.”
“It’s not her fault, Arnie. It probably never occurred to her you’d lie to me about something so serious. I’m not gone yet, you know. I’m still a part of this family. And I’m entitled to the damned truth! From what Yvonne said, I gather someone deliberately killed our dog. Is that true?”
I hesitated, then caved. “Yes.”
“What happened?”
“Sparky got out the back gate and went exploring in the woods behind the subdivision. He was apparently shot by a hunter.”
“Where was he?”
“Maybe... forty or fifty yards into the woods. A bow hunter had a shooting blind there.”
“But... we own that land, don’t we?”
“I think so, yes.”
“A bow and arrow,” she said flatly. “My God. Do you think the children might be in danger?”
“No, of course not. I know it’s difficult to accept, but Sparky was only a dog.”
“And you’re positive that a psycho who could shoot a helpless animal and leave it to die might not do the same to a child? You’re willing to bet the lives of my sons on his sterling character and judgment?” She closed her eyes, fighting against a wave of nausea. Then took a shallow, ragged breath.
“Did you report it to the police?”
“Of course. Well, sort of. I talked to Jerry Landry at the gym, he’s a deputy sheriff. He said that even if we could prove it, the man would only get a fine. And he might retaliate against us.”