Hair of the Dog by Gordon Carroll (classic novels to read .txt) 📕

sniffed the three vehicles, taking in the various scents that seeped from the minuscule gaps and spaces of fitted parts. Rubber seals and acetylene welds might keep out water for a prolonged amount of time, but even the best of man’s precision could not stop molecular drifting of scent spores as they passed almost magically through the smallest of fractures and breaks.

His canine brain catalogued each of the fragmented scents into their corresponding recognition points allowing him instant access and recall.

He took in the rubber of the tires, the cloth of the seats, the enamel and glue and carpet. His incredible scent receptors collected and divided the diverse scents associated with each of the humans that had occupied the vehicles. He had them now and forever. If it ever came to a hunt, Max would find them.

Pilgrim was rolling lazily in the grass, that was just turning green from the spring rains and late snow melt. One of the men walked close to him and Max tensed inwardly. Pilgrim, way past his prime, was further hampered from his recent injuries and if the man showed any intent to hurt the shepherd, Max would disembowel him. But the man continued past without even looking down at the big dog and so Max allowed him to move along unmolested.

By the side of the Alpha is where Max belonged, in case the men inside attacked. Max could feel their violence radiating from them like rising heat. But their voices, although un-hearable to the humans, were clear and strong to Max’s ears through the walls of the house. The conversation remained stable and calm. So Max waited and took in more data, storing it for future battle. His eyes caught the slight hitch in the step of the man that walked past Pilgrim, evidence of an old wound that could prove useful in a fight. The lack of mobility on that side made it a tactical target to be taken advantage of if need be.

As he scanned the others, he detected injuries in several of them that they had overcome and survived. This triggered an instinctual knowledge in Max’s brain, warning they were all combat veterans and not to be taken lightly. Max’s own wounds, healed and healing, were a tribute to his warrior status.

These men were not coyotes…these men were wolves. Dangerous, deadly. A part of Max wanted to strike, to attack, not just one, but all of the men. To prove himself the Alpha over them. But Max was not the Alpha. Not yet. And he had to wait until given permission. The law of the pack commanded him… restrained him… but just barely.

4

Morgan Freeman left me the folder along with a flash drive with everything he, the Chicago Police Department and even the FBI had on Mr. Jerome Larkin and Miss Keisha James (being a United States Senator has its perks). He shook my hand before stepping back into his car and I have to admit, I was a little afraid that when I pulled my hand back I might have seven fingers. But I didn’t and he gave me the exact same three pumps as when we first shook. Too bad he didn’t endow me with all the powers of deity like he did to Bruce, it would make finding Jerome and Keisha a lot easier.

The Mountain named Clyde and his posse all clambered back into their vehicles and away they went.

So much for my weekend off.

Max materialized beside me so silently it almost didn’t scare me. I looked at him…he looked back at me. I looked at the stirred-up dust the three SUVs had kicked up. Max looked that way too.

“What do you think, boy?” I asked him.

The growl was so deep and so low it sounded like it was bubbling up from the darkest part of his soul.

I rubbed his head and the growl stopped. Progress.

“Feds,” I said. “They can be a little arrogant. Don’t let it get to you.”

He moved his head from under my hand and looked at me. I nodded; baby steps. I was good with that. Safer. Max is a little…standoffish. But that’s okay. He had a rough childhood. The first time I saw him he was fighting a bear.

“You could have taken him,” I said. “He’s big, but you’re faster.”

Max looked back toward the settling dust and snorted. He walked to where the first SUV had stopped, lifted his leg and peed on the ground.

Hard to argue with that.

I went back into the house, emptied the rest of the senator’s beer into the sink, tossed the can in the trash, put my unopened can back in the fridge and took a mug down from the cupboard. I set it under the brewer, selected a dark roast K-cup and took in the rich aroma as the steaming liquid filled the mug. I considered sneaking a couple of cookies to go with it, but what with the reduced exercise due to the injuries from my last case and running still not allowed for a few more weeks, I decided against it. Setting the cup on the living room coffee table, I took up the folder the Senator had left me and started going through it. Beginning with the crime scene, I flipped through a series of photographs that would make Stephen King proud. Four dead bodies, all gunshot wounds. Keisha’s mother, a prostitute by profession with a hobby as a heroin addict (according to the police profile that accompanied the pictures) had a neat round hole in the center of her forehead. The pics of the exit wound were not so neat. She lay naked in the bed, the once white sheets now stained eternally crimson with her blood.

The naked man had made it off the bed before being killed. Three shots, one to the throat, two to his right side. The coroner’s report told the tale. Both body shots had sliced through lungs and heart, their blunt mushrooming heads followed by expanding gasses,