The Good Boy Read Online Free Page B

looking for weeks. They were ten miles downstream from where the dog alerted.”
    “Wow,” Bellwether says, “that’s unbelievable.”
    “ Absurd is the word I think you mean,” Majette says. “Or implausible . Or preposterous, maybe—”
    “If I ever need a thesaurus,” Pete says, but still to Bellwether.
    Bellwether tugs at the corner of his moustache. “The Job would be a hell of a lot easier if we could smell shit, don’t you think?”
    Pete isn’t sure if the comment is directed at Jetty or what, but the jab never connects because thunder rolls in and drives Butch into high gear, the end of his leash. “Fuss!” Pete commands, striking the dog’s right flank twice, directing him toward Edwards’s van.
    Bellwether asks, “Is that German?”
    Majette says, “You can pet the fucking dog after he’s done, okay? Do your job, Bellwether. Get the traffic.”
    “It’s German,” Pete says to Bellwether, glad the cop’s curiosity got him some grief instead of Butch, who, given the option, would probably be searching for a place to hide.
    Pete eases off the leash, says, “Butch! Rauschgift. Suche! ”
    Butch barks once and takes the lead.
    Bellwether reroutes westbound traffic while Jetty follows the team from about five paces back; he’s watching out for Pete because Pete’s watching Butch, putting much of the big picture out of focus. When they reach the van’s back bumper, Pete begins to direct Butch by hand: “Check here,” he says, pointing to random spots on the vehicle as they round the driver’s side. “What about here?” They work at a quick pace; as Butch takes prompts, Pete watches the dog to see if he begins to follow his own nose instead.
    The rain stops but when thunder comes again, a low rumble, Butch stops to look at Pete, ears back. “Check here,” Pete commands, directing him to the front wheel well. Butch gives it his best shot, but he’s visibly distracted, his outstanding ball drive no match for bone-deep fear.
    If only he understood thunder as a warning for a storm’s real dangers.
    Pete leads him around the van. “How about here.”
    Butch runs his nose over the front grille though his ears are back, submissive. In front of the headlights, Pete glances up, two pairs of eyes watching from the front seat, a captive audience—literally.
    He looks again. Two pairs of eyes. Two and not three.
    Pete backs away from the van and he says, “Jetty—” or he starts to, but then Butch gets what’s going on and drives right toward the van’s side door at the same time as Ja’Kobe White rolls it open.
    Pete jerks back, pulling the dog off his forefeet; as he resists, the leverage in his strong hind legs drives him up, standing, barking at White, inches from his ghost-face.
    Majette yells, “Stop, asshole! Do not move!” as Pete gets weight on his back leg and enough slack on the leash to turn Butch sideways, and then back onto all fours, and then so far behind the van that all Pete can see is Ja’Kobe’s red Adidas dangling above the curb, tongues out.
    “Stay in the vehicle!” Majette warns, approaching Ja’Kobe gun-first.
    “You all gonna search in here anyhow,” he says, “why can’t we get out?”
    Majette nods toward Butch, who’s still barking. “Because he said so.”
    Bellwether comes from the street, stands with Pete. “Is he giving us the go-ahead?”
    “You mean Butch, or the animal?” He pulls up on the leash. “Fuss!”
    Butch takes it down to a growl, to let Pete know there’s still a threat.
    “Ruhig,” Pete commands, to silence him.
    “C’mon, man,” Ja’Kobe says, “there’s no A/C up in here.”
    “You want to come out of there, man, ” Majette says, “you put your hands on your head and you turn around real slow and face the vehicle.”
    Ja’Kobe gets out, hands up; he is taller and better built than Pete remembers, though last he saw of the kid was in a news clip, where he got himself featured because of Felan.
    “Slowly, man, ”