Free The Patron Saint of Lost Dogs: A Novel by Nick Trout Page B

down , I think . Weigh the facts .
    Obviously the number on the poster is not the woman’s cell phone number, but probably her home phone number. I call the number and charcoal suit man picks up, meaning this woman, this child, and Frieda Fuzzypaws live together. The poster says “MISSING,” as in lost or escaped, therefore the woman and the little girl believe this to be true, which means charcoal suit man created this lie.
    Now what am I supposed to do? How do I hide a dog everybody is looking for and how can I come forward with a dog I’m supposed to have put to sleep?

6
    Heading out of town, I see the last of the residential properties slipstream behind me as the truck lumbers toward a series of switchbacks. A man who never learned to drive in snow should be concentrating on the road, but my mind is elsewhere. I don’t do impetuous acts, but there’s a part of me that wants to forget this house call. It wants to find out where the woman and the little girl live, deposit Frieda at their front door, ring the doorbell, and run. But the analytical, investigative part of me says not so fast. This is a case begging to be worked in the wrong direction, from back to front. Isn’t this what I’m supposed to be good at? Like I said to Lewis, my mind naturally prefers starting at the last chapter. I already know whodunit, or rather, who wanted it done. Frieda is our victim and, as far as I can tell, blameless of the crime she’s supposed to have committed. Everybody’s looking for her. Now, if I take her to an adoption center or a rescue group, chances are she’ll be returned to the man who wants her destroyed. I doubt he’ll risk another visit to a veterinarian. He’ll probably take her out into the woods and do it himself. No, the man in the charcoal suit is our wannabe killer. He and I are the only people who know what would have happened. To prevent it from happening again, I need the answer to a far more complicated question. Why?
    I miss the turnoff to Harry Carp’s. It’s easily done. All that marks the address are hand-painted numbers on a solitary mailbox bearing baseball bat bruises. The unplowed driveway hidden among the evergreens was completely obscured. I check the cracked rearview mirror of the truck before making a U-turn. The fairground fun house reflection plays tricks with my features, but it cannot hide the dark circles of unease and insomnia around my eyes.
    Wheels spinning and back end fishtailing, I work my way up a narrow tree-lined driveway, locking onto a previous set of tire tracks, following them to an A-frame cabin that has all but disappeared into its woodsy surroundings. Lewis was right, there is plenty of room. Who needs reverse?
    I grab the trusty bag of tricks, Lewis’s “doctorin’ bag,” from the passenger seat, jump down from the cab, and trudge through the snow. A path has been shoveled to the front door, a good six feet of snowbank on either side, but there’s no doorbell. Somewhere inside I can hear the sound of conversation and then gunfire, from a television. I rap hard on the wood. Nothing. I try again. Still nothing. How old is Harry Carp? And what kind of a guard dog is Clint?
    I don’t see as I have much choice. I wade, waist deep in powder, toward a window, hoping it is a kitchen or living room, hoping someone or something will see me. I have to tap on the glass before man or beast register they have a visitor. Harry Carp makes a show of his apology as something moves in the shadows, barking in either welcome or disapproval—I can’t tell which. I wade back to the door and dust myself down before it swings open.
    “Easy, Clint,” says a man who has to be in his eighties, one hand pressed firmly into the grip of a walking cane as he leans in for support. Once upon a time he was probably a formidable man, but now his chest is more barrel than broad, as if transformed by diseases in his heart or lungs. His spine has succumbed to the weight and curvature of time,