Gun Shy Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Praise for the Raine Stockton Dog Mysteries

  Rapid Fire

  “Rich with depictions of North Carolina’s beautiful Smoky Mountains, Ball’s latest is a cozy with a hint of romance. Raine Stockton is a delightful protagonist, a very human, down-to-earth character. As she quickly becomes immersed in a well-crafted mystery, she’s forced to choose between the only two men she’s ever loved— a sheriff and a fugitive.” —Romantic Times

  “There can’t be too many golden retrievers in mystery fiction for my taste.” —Deadly Pleasures

  Smoky Mountain Tracks

  “[A] twisty tale, a riveting finale, and a golden retriever to die for.” —Carolyn Hart

  “[Smoky Mountain Tracks] has everything—wonderful characters, surprising twists, great dialogue. Donna Ball knows dogs . . . the Smoky Mountains . . . [and] how to write a page-turner. I loved it.” —Beverly Connor

  “[A] story of suspense with humor and tenderness.”

  —Carlene Thompson

  “[Ball] turns her considerable talent to mystery writing and provides an exciting, original, and suspense-laden whodunit. . . . A simply fabulous mystery starring a likable, dedicated heroine. . . .” —Midwest Book Review

  Other books in the

  Raine Stockton Dog Mystery Series

  Smoky Mountain Tracks

  Rapid Fire

  SIGNET

  Published by New American Library, a division of

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  First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First Printing, August 2007

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Copyright © Donna Ball, 2007

  All rights reserved

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  Printed in the United States of America

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

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  eISBN : 978-1-4406-1961-8

  This book is dedicated to the pups of Canine Companions for Independence, heroes in the making, and to their puppy raisers, heroes already.

  And to my own Destiny, Glitter and Rhythm, and all of the Dixie Dancing Dogs, who bring so much joy to so many every year. May you dance forever!

  Chapter One

  By the time I was called in, the body had been inside the cabin for at least four days, maybe more. If this had been July instead of October, the odor would have alerted every scavenger in the woods, and probably a few neighbors, long before now. The cool Smoky Mountain nights and moderate daytime temperatures had probably slowed down the decay a good bit. Still, by the looks on the faces of Hanover County’s finest when I drove up, what I was about to encounter was not for the faint of heart— or the weak of stomach.

  And I’m not even a cop. I’m a dog trainer. Things like this are not exactly in my job description.

  The wooded clearing was aglow with late afternoon sunlight. It set the tops of the surrounding trees on fire with bright red and yellow flames and bounced off the hoods and racing blue strip lights of all four Hanover County Sheriff’s Department cars, which were edged at every possible angle into the narrow space. The minute I opened the car door I heard the hoarse, frantic, exhausted barking that came from inside the house, and my heart twisted in my chest. I draped a slip-loop leash around my neck and got out of the car.

  I singled out the round, middle-aged man standing at the center of a knot of cops and hurried over to him. My uncle Roe had been sheriff of Hanover County for close to thirty years, and today his face showed it. “Hey, Raine,” he said, and the cluster of uniforms around him parted. The expressions on the faces of the other officers fell somewhere between relief and regret. They knew, I guess, that when I finished my job, they would have to do theirs. And it would be a very, very unpleasant one.

  “Thanks for getting here so quick,” Uncle Roe said. He nodded toward the house. “We need to get in there and secure the scene, but we can’t get by the dog. Thought you might have a snare or something.”

  “Shame to shoot him,” volunteered Deke, who was not my favorite deputy on the force. “What this county really needs is an animal control officer.”

  I glared at him. “There’s no need to be talking about shooting anything. I can handle this.” For reassurance, I shoved my fingers into my jeans pocket and wrapped them around my own weapon—a sandwich bag filled with hot dogs and cheese.

  The hoarse, pathetic barking went on and on in the background, muffled by the thick cabin walls and closed windows. How long had he been in there, without food or water, desperately trying to call for help while the person who was responsible for his care lay lifeless and in plain view? The character of the barking sounded hopeless,mindless, a desperate instinct without purpose. It broke
my heart.

  Uncle Roe started walking with me toward the house, his head down and his fists shoved into the lightweight sheriff’s department windbreaker he wore. He moved slowly, in no hurry to reach what lay at the end of the short path.

  Guarding the door of the cabin, as though there were anything to be guarded, were two of my favorite members of the force—my almost-ex-husband, Buck, and his female partner, Wyn. Even from a distance I could see that Wyn had the stoic, white-around-the-lips look of a woman who was trying very hard not to be sick, and Buck didn’t look much better.

  “It looks like suicide,” Uncle Roe said. “Gunshot wound between the eyes. A woman; don’t have an ID yet. We broke out the back window to get a look inside and make sure the victim was, um, dead.” In this part of the country, even supposedly hardened law enforcement officers had the decency to give a respectful pause before consigning a soul to the ever after with the word. He went on, “But the dog is in the front room, between us and the victim, and we can’t get in without going past him.”

  We had reached the front stoop, and Wyn said grimly, “Guess who was the only one small enough to wiggle through the window?”

  I grimaced for her. “Was it bad?”

  She said simply, “Don’t go back there.”

  Buck gave me a look that was half challenge, half reproof. “Didn’t you bring gloves, or some kind of pole?

  Listen to that, Raine. That dog is half crazy. Who knows how long he’s been locked up in there, or what he was like before this happened!”

  I said firmly, “A pole would only scare him into attack mode. I’ll be fine.” But I did feel a little foolish for not bringing heavy gloves. Even the best-mannered dog can’t be blamed for snapping at a hand when he’s terrified. And this dog did not sound as though manners were high on his list of priorities right now.

  Uncle Roe said, “Actually it was the dog that alerted the neighbors. A couple who’re staying in that cabin across the lake take their morning and evening walks past here every day. After hearing the dog barking like that for four days straight, and trying several times to get someone to come to the door, they called us on an animal neglect complaint.”

  I swallowed hard. “The dog . . . hasn’t been locked in the same room with the body all that time, has it?”

  “No,” Wyn assured me quickly. “The bedroom door is closed. The dog couldn’t get to her.”

  I released a breath. “Okay, then,” I murmured. But I made no move to advance.

  Buck said, “We jimmied the lock with a crowbar. But every time we tried to open the door, the dog would charge it.”

  “He’s not charging now,” I observed, mostly to myself, and that worried me a little. Ordinarily a dog will rush to the door when a stranger approaches, either to greet or to warn away. From the sound of the barking, I could tell that the dog was somewhere in the center of the room, which meant he was far past the warning stage and would be able to get plenty of speed and power behind the attack when he did decide to charge.

  I thrust my hand into my pocket again and brought out a fist filled with cheese and hot dog cubes. “Okay,” I said, and moved toward the door.

  “Hold on a minute.” My uncle withdrew from his pocket a small tin of mentholated salve and snapped off the lid. “Dab a little of this on your upper lip. It cuts the smell.”

  I had seen big-city cops use this method on TV, but was surprised to see it in real life. “Does this stuff really work?”

  “No,” said Wyn, looking sick again.

  But Uncle Roe took a scoop of the greasy stuff on his fingertip and smeared it beneath my nose. I almost gagged from the strength of the eucalyptus smell, and my eyes watered. I drew in a breath through my mouth and jerked my head toward the yard. “You guys get down off the porch. Don’t crowd him.”

  “No way,” said Buck immediately.

  “Sorry,” agreed Uncle Roe. “You do what you have to do, but we’re staying right here.”

  I hadn’t expected anything different. “At least move off to the side. I don’t want you scaring him.”

  Uncle Roe said quietly, “Don’t you take any stupid chances, you hear me? I’m not having anybody get hurt here. If that dog goes for you, we’re gonna have to shoot him.”

  I couldn’t stare my uncle down like I had Deke, so I didn’t even try. Besides, I knew he was right.

  I said, “Everybody, just move back. Give me some room.”

  In the best-case scenario, as far as the police were concerned, the dog would dash through the door the minute I opened it and race off into the woods. That would also be the worst-case scenario as far as the poor dog was concerned, and the last thing that I wanted to happen. So I eased the door open with one shoulder and slipped inside the room sideways, leaving the door open behind me just wide enough to admit daylight. Just so it didn’t look like a trap.

  The tenor of the barking changed immediately when the door opened, from frantic and crazed to angry and crazed; the sound of a desperate creature who, despite my best efforts, felt trapped. The dark paneled walls reflected little light, and it took my eyes a terrifying moment to adjust to the dimness. In the endless interval until I could see again, I expected to feel sharp teeth piercing some part of my body at any moment.

  While my ears were being assaulted with the cacophony of barking and my eyes were struggling to find shapes in the grayness, all the rest of my senses—taste and, yes, touch as well—were inundated by the smell. There was the sharp, unpleasant odor of urine and dog feces, of course; old wood and stale air; not to mention the sickening, now almost sweet aroma of the mentholated balm underneath my nose. But beneath all of that, in fact interwoven with it in a greasy miasma that I could almost see, was a gassy, rotting, sick-sweet odor that I could spend a lifetime trying to describe, and that I will never forget as long as I live.

  Think of a raw chicken that has gone bad in the refrigerator. Think of a raccoon that has crawled under the house and died. Put them both together and imagine something ten times worse. I actually gagged on my first breath, and the only thing that kept me from bolting back out through the door was that I got my first glimpse of the dog just then. He was standing in the center of the room with his head down, his ears back and his eyes glinting, barking his furious, terrified, half-growling, half-snapping bark. I would have been a fool to turn my back on him. And I couldn’t leave him like that.

  A dog’s sense of smell is at least five hundred times more acute than ours. And he had been locked up in here with this horror for at least four days. I felt right then as though I wanted to sink to my knees and apologize for the whole human race.

  Instead, I lowered my chin and my eyes and turned in perfect profile to him, watching him with my peripheral vision. He was a yellow Lab. I know enough about dogs to realize that a Labrador retriever—the number one dog registered by the AKC for three years running, renowned as the perfect family pet—is just as capable of inflicting severe bite wounds as any rottweiler, Doberman or German shepherd. Their powerful jaws and muscular body type, in fact, would make them particularly suited for attack training—if only they had the aggressive personalities to match.

  Everyone loves the Labrador retriever. On big screens and small, from the pages of magazines, newspapers and storybooks, they sit in rowboats and watch the sunset with their beloved masters; they rescue small children from hazardous situations; they fetch beer from the refrigerator on Super Bowl Sunday. They sell cars, houses, insurance and pet food. They are America’s dog.

  So even though intellectually I knew better, I was relieved that the manic, snarling, jugular-threatening sounds I heard were, in fact, coming from a Labrador retriever. I knew retrievers. This I could handle.

  Trying not to make any discernibly sudden movements, I used my thumb to flick one of the hot dog cubes toward him. He didn’t notice. I tried again. This one landed close enough to him that he could smell it, and he stopped threatening me long enough to gobble it up. Quickly, before he could recap
ture the manic barking cycle, I tossed several cubes behind him. He had to turn his back on me to snatch them off the floor. When he looked back at me again I was half a dozen steps closer, though I still maintained my nonthreatening profile and submissive pose. I tossed another treat behind him. He retreated to eat it. I advanced.

  By the time I was close enough to stretch out an arm to touch him, I had dropped to a duck-walking crouch, and the life-threatening growls had diminished to an intermittent rumble deep in his chest that was occasionally bracketed by a sound that was somewhere between a groan and a whine. His tail was plastered against his concave belly, his eyes were ravenous and thin streams of drool dripped from both jowls. I opened up my hot dog-filled hand, and he took one cautious step closer, then another. I kept my breathing smooth and even, and I did not look at him. His hunger overcame his fear and he gobbled up the remaining treats in my hand. I turned and in a single smooth motion whipped the leash from around my neck over his head, tightening the loop around his neck.

  This was the most dangerous part of the operation. I was close enough and he was fast enough that he could have easily taken a hunk out of my face or my hand if he had been so inclined. At the very least he could have gone into a wild bucking fit in which one of us was sure to be hurt. He did neither of those things.

  The minute he felt the loop on his neck he looked at me, and if a dog can be said to experience emotion, I would swear the emotion that swept through his eyes was relief. This was a dog who knew what a leash was for and who associated it with good things. This surprised me, because he was not wearing a collar.

  There are many good reasons for a person to leave a dog uncollared, of course—an allergy or coat breakage, a recent bath in which the collar was removed and forgotten, or the fact that the dog is minutes away from entering the conformation or agility ring. Obviously the last two instances did not apply to this dog, but I confess I am overall a little judgmental on the subject of collars. In the area in which I live, a dog without a collar usually means an owner who doesn’t have sense enough to take care of his pet.