Part 9 (1/2)

”And nicely done,” Masera commented. ”He enjoys it.”

”And apparently he's got his champions.h.i.+pa””

”You said that last time, too. Apparently.”

”That's because for all the care someone took with him, there's no record of him anywhere. His rabies tag won't match up, the phone number on his ID isn't in service, the Cardi Club has no record of hima””

”That can't be,” Masera interrupted. ”Not if he's been shown.”

”No kidding,” Brenna said, not caring for the interruption. ”But he's been shown. Put yourself in handler mode and take him in a triangle, then ask him to stack. See what happens.”

”I'll take your word for it. He's a mystery dog, all right. But they say some women like that.”

She stared at him for an agog moment. ”Was that a joke? Did you actually just make a joke with me?”

”A little one,” he said, excessively somber of face. ”Mark it on your calendar. The Kalends of April todaya”appropriate enough.”

”The Kalendsa””

”April Fool's day,” he said, not waiting for her to finish.

Then why not say so? She snorted and led him down the hill, along the spring-deep and loudly burbling creek, past the footbridge and to a spot below the spring. There, she handed him Druid's lead. ”Hang on a minute, okay? There's something I need to do, first. I'll be right back down.”

He didn't understand; that was clear enough from his expressiona”a little impatient, but not particularly curious. Well, he'd just have to deal with it. Brenna walked the steep incline to the spring some fifty feet above him. By the time she reached it, the expected drizzle had started, but it stayed light and she ignored it. She knelt by the gravesite and carefully placed Sunny's collar among the rocks, wedging it into place. After a while the collar would wear and fade and maybe blow free, but by then maybe she wouldn't need it there anymore. G.o.d, she thought, if you're watching out for my dogs, please welcome Sunny. You always had a special fondness for children. And Sunny had never been anything more than a puppy at heart. She looked at the shrine a moment, trying to sort out, again, how her beliefs fit into one another, and how she could feel comfortable speaking to the G.o.d she'd been raised to respect and wors.h.i.+p in one moment, and to another culture's ancient G.o.d in the next.

As a child it had been easy. The G.o.d she knew hadn't responded to her prayers, so she'd tried someone else. It had been her secret, a deep and long-lasting one, and in her heart she'd always believed she'd been heard, that Mars Nodens had touched her life. In her practical lifea”even as recently as this morninga”she avoided the issue, thought lightly of coincidence, and rarely turned her inner self to any sort of prayer. Too caught up in life. Probably a big mistake, she thought wryly. Look where it had gotten hera”overworked groomer struggling with herself, not knowing how to fix her life, and now caught smack in the middle of . . .

Something.

”I don't know,” she said finally, looking up at the big bare oak; too early in the season for leaves or even buds. ”Maybe you just use Mars Nodens as another of your faces, and maybe it's easier to hear about dogs and healing with those ears. Or maybe I'm just fooling myself, and I'm a blaspheming idiot.” Whatever. But I think Druid and I could use some help. I think we're in trouble.

The problem was, she didn't know just what kind of trouble. ”Even a clue,” she told the oak, and everything it and the spring represented at this moment. ”Even a clue would help.”

And though it would have been nice for the oak branches to rustle rea.s.suringly in the breezeless air, or the spring, which was never really more than an ooze of water, to burble for an enthusiastic moment, Brenna wasn't really expecting either of those things. Nor, as she got to her feet, was she expecting to be hit by a light dizziness, quickly come and gonea”and which in previous days had somehow presaged reaction from Druid, their unlikely connection.

But Druid did nothing. He sat at the bottom of the hill and looked up at her, ears big and forward, head c.o.c.ked.

Brenna went back down the hill.

”Are you pagan?” Masera asked, and his eyes had narrowed, taking on that hooded look.

Brenna managed to keep her surprise from running away with her mouth. ”Presbyterian,” she said. ”Why on earth do you ask?”

”Why on earth is an appropriate way to put it,” he said dryly, though his challenging expression eased. ”I asked becausea”” and he almost said something, but stopped on it, and completed the thought as, ”because between the oak and the spring and the shrine, it looks like a pagan sort of place.”

”It does?” She considered it. ”It's a Lydney sort of place,” she said. ”That's all I know about it. And it pretty much came this way, except that I buried a childhood dog up there, and it's important to me. Why, are you pagan?”

He smiled, a mere crook at one corner of his mouth, and shook his head. ”Lapsed Catholic.”

”Well, that pretty much settles that, then,” Brenna said. ”Do you want to take him up there? Or do you want me to do it?”

”You go ahead,” Masera said, and handed her the lead; he seemed to be paying no more attention to the drizzle than she was. ”I want to see what happens, and what you do about it.”

”Oh, great,” Brenna muttered. ”A test.”

He laughed out loud at that, short but with true amus.e.m.e.nt, and when he responded, he was still grinning. ”I just need to see where we're starting out.”

”Well, prepare yourself, then,” Brenna said. ”Though keep in mind I said he wasn't consistent.”

She needn't have worried. Perfectly happy at the bottom of the hill, Druid had no intention of getting any closer to the spring. He hung behind her for a few steps, whined for a few more steps, and then flung himself backward with enough force that without the leash, he'd have gone tumbling backward down the hill. For once Brenna was ready for him. Acutely aware of Masera's scrutiny, she let the dog struggle for a few moments, then stepped on the leash, walking on it until she had it pinned to the ground close to his collar. ”No,” she told him sternly. ”Druid, no.”

And had a sudden flash echo of someone else's voice in her head, saying those words but edged with sheer terror-stricken panica”Druid, no!a”and she touched the damp earth on the slope above her, suddenly doubting her own sanity as much as Druid's.

He quit, then, panting harshly, one of the cuts on his lip reopened and bleeding.

”Bring him down a few feet,” Masera said quietly. ”To a spot where he was okay.”

When she had him settled there, Masera came up and joined them. ”He warned you about that one,” he said. ”But you said that's not typical.”

”He usually gets out a whine or two,” Brenna said. ”It's just never clear why, so I don't know till after he's started up that it was a warning. Because sometimes he thinks to himself, too. Like when he's chewing a bonea”it's just this whine, like he's thinking really hard and some of the thoughts escape. I don't even think he knows he's making noise. It's pretty adorable, actually,” she admitted, scratching the side of her nose with a pebble-gloved finger.

Masera gave Druid a rub behind the ears and a gentle thump on the ribs. ”I wish I had more to tell you,” he said. ”You're basically doing the right thinga”not making a big deal of it, giving him a chance to stop, and escalating in a low-key way when he doesn't. If he's predictable about the spring, I'd bring him up here frequently. Take him right to the edge of his feara”the last step before he loses it. And sit there a while, giving him lots of love. Give him a chance to think about that. Then take him up, because unfortunately, he's got to learn to work through this fear and to respond to you or you won't have any chance of getting through to him when he flips out under unpredictable circ.u.mstances. The instant he stops the fear behavior, no matter how surprised or upset you are, you need to be a little more responsive with praise and petting. Love the h.e.l.l out of him, if you really want to know. He needs that contrast, so it becomes clear to hima”if he's freaking out, there's no love in the offing, but when he quits, he becomes a hero.”

”And the biting?”

He shook his head. ”There's no easy answer. You're going to have to decide how important it is to you. He's an outstanding dog with a serious quirk, and any time you grab him while he's flipping, there's the chance he'll bite.”

Brenna bit her lip and looked away. ”It was my own fault. I should have paid attention when he whined. Then he wouldn't have been in my lap when it happened. I guess I was just hoping that he'd adjusted, that he was through with that c.r.a.p.”

He reached to touch her arm but, as in the kitchen, let his hand fall away before it quite reached her. ”Hindsight's a b.i.t.c.h.”

He had such a wry tone in his voice that she looked at him and laughed. He shrugged, looking back out at the pasture. ”This is a nice spot. I can see why you chose it for your dog, way back when.”

”He liked to sit at the top of the hill and watch the horses, when we had them here.” She crouched next to Druid and bent to kiss his furry head, now surface-damp with the cold drizzle, and looked out over the view with fresh eyes. The creek cut deeply through the pasture, its banks lined with sumac and less identifiable, barely budding brush; some of the low plants were greening, taking advantage of the early sun before the brush turned into thick shadow. Beyond, the pasture stretched to the road, new gra.s.s just beginning to shove green blades above the pale remnants of last summer's flattened growth. To their left, the creek curved around and the trees that lined it broke away to form a windbreak between two pasture sections; even in winter, it was hard to see beyond that. Brenna pointed off to the right. ”In the summer, wild spearmint grows over there. Just walking through the field is like taking a bath in it. And there it's always shady and cool, and therea”” she pointed to a spot just left of the footbridge, which was between them and the spearmint area, ”a”there, the poison ivy has taken over. Doesn't bother me, but most people can't get near it. Maybe,” she said in muttered afterthought, ”Rob Parker will walk through it one of these days.”

Until that moment, Masera had been at ease, following along in her little travelogue, standing just downhill of her with his hands relaxed on his hips. Now he turned back to look at her and said, ”Rob Parker?”

And she stared back at him, startled by his vehemence. Then she said slowly, ”Rob Parker. I take it you know him?”

”I've heard of him.” Masera looked out over the pasture with new interest, her back off cues apparently gone to waste. Brenna suspected he'd only now realized that they'd changed direction in walking to the spring, and no longer faced the same road that ran down the hill from her house. ”He lives around here?”

”I'm not sure that he does. His family has some old property off that way.” She gave a hazy wave.

She'd seen bird dogs home in slower on a close covey. He searched the line of woods in that direction, as if there'd be some clue to the location of the Parker Homestead.

”Oh, here,” she said, getting up and starting down the hill. ”I'll show you.”

He hesitated, but she wasn't sure why. Surprise at the offer? Or maybe he just doesn't want to go there with you in tow. Ooh, that last one made her wince; uncharacteristically b.i.t.c.hy of her, it was. Not fair. Especially after he'd disrupted his whole day so she wouldn't be alone after losing Sunny to . . . whatever, and to be here today to work with Druid. ”It's what you want, isn't it? It might be for sale, and it's probably good kennel grounds. Maybe a little marshy in spots, but all the land around here tends to that.”

And at that he turned to look at her again, and to regard her without haste. ”Yes,” he said. ”I would like to see the land.”