Drown Her Sorrows (Bree Taggert) Page 2

  Two small black shapes moved at the bear’s feet. Bree spared them a quick glance.

  Cubs.

  This was a mama bear, and Bree was only twenty-five feet away from her babies.

  Mama bear rose onto her back legs. Her nose lifted as she tested the air. The big head turned, and the animal sniffed in the direction of the river. She’d caught the scent of a competing odor.

  The area might be trying to become a suburb, but right in front of Bree was a sign that much of it was still untamed. This was not the first bear she’d seen. Until her parents had died when Bree was eight, she’d run half-wild in the woods of Grey’s Hollow. She knew enough not to run now. Fleeing would engage the animal’s prey instinct.

  People who ran from bears got caught.

  But as much as her brain knew what she needed to do, her body was primed for a fight-or-flight response. Unfortunately, both of those options sucked.

  Bree raised her hands and spread out her arms, trying to appear larger. She took a slow, easy step backward, and said in a loud, mostly calm voice, “Easy, there. I won’t hurt you or your babies.”

  Bree’s Glock felt like a peashooter, but it was all she had. Her can of bear spray was sitting uselessly in the back of her vehicle. A black bear could charge at thirty miles per hour. Her chances of stopping the bear with well-placed, meaningful shots during that panicked nanosecond weren’t good. And she did not want to shoot this animal. Bree’s heart sprinted in her chest, but she forced her feet to move like molasses. She could hear little but the desperate pounding of her own pulse in her ears.

  The bear dropped to all fours, slapping the ground as her front paws landed. Huffing, the animal took two quick steps forward, then retreated.

  Bree slid one foot backward, then the other. The bear swung her head in a low arc. Bree took another step back, putting one more precious foot of space between her and the animal.

  Above, she heard a siren approach. The bear heard it too and pivoted in the opposite direction. She retreated at a run, with her cubs at her heels.

  The breath left Bree’s lungs in one hard whoosh, making her light-headed.

  She’d been lucky. So lucky.

  On shaky legs, she turned to walk up the trail to the road. She’d wait for backup—and bear spray—before searching the riverbank. Rocks shifted under her feet. The ground gave way, and Bree plunged down the slope. Struggling to keep her feet aimed downhill, she smacked into a sapling and slid between the trunks of two larger trees. She landed in a heap at the bottom of the slope. Loose dirt and small rocks settled around her.

  The rocky riverbank was just ahead. Bree got to her feet and brushed some dirt from her pants.

  An odor drifted toward her on the breeze, unsettling her stomach, and she knew what had attracted the bear.

  She walked onto the rocks that lined the waterway. She had a clear view of the entire bank all the way to the bridge high above. Ahead, something red peeked out from behind a boulder on the shoreline, then retreated.

  Her stomach knotted.

  She quickened her steps. Rounding the big rock, she stared down. Knowing what she was going to find didn’t make the discovery easier. In the rocks and mud at the river’s edge was the body of a woman wearing a red rain jacket and jeans. The bear had picked up the scent. Black bears will eat anything from bugs to grass to berries—to bodies.

  She reached for her phone and called Deputy Collins. “I found her.”

  Bree approached the body. The victim lay on her side, wet hair swirling in the water around her face, the body limply shifting position as the current lapped around it. Bree reached into her pocket and pulled out a pen. She used it to lift the hair off the victim’s face. She was small, blonde, and definitely dead.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Matt Flynn sat in the passenger seat of his sister’s minivan. An abandoned industrial park stretched out on one side of the street. Small, run-down houses lined the other.

  “Thanks for coming with me,” his sister, Cady, said from the driver’s seat.

  “I’m glad you called me. I wouldn’t want you in this neighborhood alone.” For many reasons. A former sheriff’s deputy, Matt had been to the area before. He’d busted a meth lab on the next block. But he also knew this was the neighborhood where Cady’s ex-husband’s family lived.

  In the back seat, Brody barked once and pressed his nose to the window. The German shepherd had been Matt’s K-9 partner before a shooting had ended both of their careers. Matt had taken a settlement from the county, with the stipulation that his dog retired with him. Brody was his partner. Matt had refused to leave him behind to be used by the careless and corrupt former sheriff. Matt wondered if Brody recognized the blocks as they cruised by.

  “I didn’t want to wait until tomorrow,” Cady said. “The caller said the dog was in bad shape, and it’ll be dark in an hour.” Cady ran a dog rescue. She often received anonymous calls about neglected or abused animals. “Usually, I just get one of the girls to go with me, but I thought you might be a better option tonight.”

  “I’m happy to help, even though you’re no damsel in distress.” Matt said a silent thanks that his sister had plenty of street smarts and common sense. Not that she wasn’t capable. A former collegiate rower, Cady now taught kickboxing and self-defense. Nearly six feet tall, she wore faded jeans and a hoodie emblazoned with the logo for their older brother’s MMA gym. She didn’t exactly look fragile.

  “I’d rather not get into distress at all, if I can help it.” Cady pointed to an overgrown lot. “This is it.”

  A small house sat in the middle of a suburban jungle. Weeds and foliage grew over the front porch. Mold covered the peeling white siding.

  She pulled over, adjusted her long, strawberry blonde ponytail, and reached for the door handle.

  “Hold on.” Matt scanned the street. “Do you know who owns the house?”

  “Yes.” Cady gave him a name he didn’t recognize. “I already spoke to him and got permission to remove the dog from his property. The house is supposed to be knocked down next month. Whoever is living here is squatting.”

  Matt hoped that was all they were doing. If he and Cady ran into drug dealers, they could be shot on sight and their bodies dumped in the river.

  He turned to the dog in the back seat. “Stay.” He didn’t want Brody stepping on a crack pipe, needle, or broken glass. The dog was strictly backup.

  Brody wouldn’t like it, but he’d obey. Matt lowered the window to give Brody fresh air—and so the dog could get out of the vehicle if necessary. Then he opened his own door and stepped into the street. The hairs on the back of his neck shot to attention.

  Someone was watching.

  In this neighborhood, someone would always be watching. Criminals kept a close eye on their surroundings. Residents who weren’t criminals would be equally as worried about strangers.

  The sun was dropping low, casting long shadows. Matt followed Cady to the broken sidewalk. A rusty chain-link fence encircled the property. Unlatched, the gate hung on its hinges. It squeaked as Cady opened it. They went through the opening, the foliage closing in on them and obstructing their view. A prickly shrub snatched at the legs of Matt’s jeans.

  “Did the caller say where the dog was being kept?” He stepped in front of his sister in case any surprises waited for them.

  “The back porch.”

  Matt’s pulse thudded as they walked along the side of the house. He listened hard, but all he heard was the spring breeze in the trees and the distant rumble of a freight train. He held an evergreen branch aside for his sister, and they emerged into the rear yard. Broken bottles, cigarette butts, and fast-food wrappers littered the weedy ground. Glass shards crunched under Matt’s boots, and he was glad he’d left Brody in the van.

  A low whine sounded from behind a thick juniper bush at the corner of the building. Matt and Cady stepped around it to view the back of the house. A porch spanned the rear of the building. Half of the railing spindles we
re broken, and the wooden steps were rotted.

  Cady pointed. “There.”

  A young white-and-brown pit bull mix stood near the sagging back door. He was tied to a post by a thick, dirty rope. Piles of dog feces surrounded him. The smell was overwhelming, and there wasn’t a clean spot big enough for him to lie down. His ribs protruded, and his coat was matted and filthy.

  “Poor baby,” Cady crooned in a high-pitched voice. “You’re so thin.”

  Matt approached the bottom of the steps slowly, looking for signs of aggression. The dog whined softly again. Matt pulled a piece of chicken from his pocket and extended it toward the dog. Its posture softened as it sniffed Matt’s fingers and carefully took the food. No snapping but also no hesitation or distrust. Amazing.

  Matt scanned the thin body. “Young male. Forty pounds. At least ten pounds underweight. Infested with fleas.”

  “There’s no food. Do you see water?” Cady stepped around Matt to get a better look. She’d have none of his overprotecting. He should have known better.

  “There’s an empty bowl.” Matt snapped pictures. Documenting cases was an old habit from his days as a sheriff’s investigator.

  “I’ve seen enough,” Cady said, her voice final. “Let’s get him out of here.”

  Matt leaned forward and untied the rope on the dog’s collar. “Are you going to be a good boy?” he asked in a high-pitched tone. The dog responded with a wag.

  “Watch your face, Matt.”

  The dog seemed friendly, but most dogs didn’t bite out of aggression. It was usually a reaction to fear or pain.

  Not wanting to risk falling through the rotted steps, Matt leaned forward and scooped an arm around the dog’s middle. “Don’t bite me, OK?”

  The dog didn’t struggle at all as Matt lifted him off the porch. Instead he licked Matt’s face.

  “OK. There’s a good boy.” Matt set him on the ground and gave his square head a rub.

  Crouching to the dog’s level, Cady opened the loop on her lead and slipped it over his head. “You’re such a pretty boy.” She gave him a treat from her pocket.

  Unbelievably, the thin tail whipped back and forth, and his skinny body wriggled with joy.

  “How can these neglected dogs still love people after what’s been done to them?” Matt scanned the rest of the dog for injuries, but he seemed sound.

  “Humans don’t deserve dogs,” Cady agreed.

  Matt patted the dog’s side. “Let’s get him out of here.”

  “You are going to feel so much better very soon.” Cady stood. The dog seemed happy to fall into step beside her, as if he knew he was being rescued.

  She led him alongside the house back toward the front yard. Matt brought up the rear. They emerged onto the sidewalk. The setting sun blinded Matt, and he held up a hand to block it.

  “Hey! You can’t just take that dog!” a tall bald man yelled from across the street. He pulled his head out from under the hood of a battered F-150 and stepped around a toolbox on the ground.

  Matt reached for Cady’s arm, pulling her behind him. The dog pressed his body against her calf.

  “We have permission from the owner of the house,” Matt said.

  “Well, that dog belongs to my friend. It ain’t yours.” The man was in his fifties, in saggy jeans and a T-shirt stained with what looked like motor oil. Despite being older and lean, he had a wiry and wary look that put Matt on alert. The man walked a few steps closer, clearly not afraid. He held a wrench in one hand and slapped it into his opposite palm.

  Matt wished he still wore a badge and gun. “Where’s your friend?”

  In the background, Matt saw Brody’s dark form leap silently from the open van window onto the sidewalk.

  “He went to visit somebody,” the man said. “He’ll be back in a day or two.”

  “He isn’t supposed to be living here.” Matt kept his voice even. “You know he doesn’t own this place.”

  “People do what they gotta do.” The man shrugged. His tone dropped lower, more threatening. “You still can’t just take a dude’s dog.”

  Cady slipped out from behind Matt. “Hi, I’m Cady. What’s your name?”

  “Cady,” Matt warned under his breath.

  She ignored him.

  “I’m Dean.” The man’s posture softened as she smiled at him.

  Cady’s face went serious. She gave the dog a worried look. “The dog is in pretty bad shape.”

  Dean frowned. “He looks OK to me.”

  Brody padded down the walk until he stood about fifteen feet behind the man. Matt gave him the hand signal to stay. He obeyed, but his focus was 100 percent on Dean. If Dean acted aggressively, Brody would take him down.

  “He’s underweight. He’s covered in so many fleas he’s lost some of his fur.” Cady pointed to a bald patch on the dog’s hindquarters. “Your friend left him without any food or water. When did he leave?”

  “Yesterday.” Dean’s gaze swept over the dog, as if reassessing him. “No food or water, huh?”

  “No.” Cady reached into her pocket for a business card. “I run a dog rescue. You can give my card to your friend when he gets back, and he can contact me about the dog. We’re going to take him to a vet for treatment.”

  Dean waved off her offer of a card. “Nah. I ain’t never really looked good at the dog, but I can see you’re right. He’s way too skinny.” He stepped back, his voice full of respect. “You go on your way. I’ll go back to minding my own business.”

  “Thanks.” Cady led the dog toward the van.

  Dean gave her a quick head bow, then turned back to his truck repair. He hesitated as he caught sight of Brody on the sidewalk. With his ears pricked forward and intelligent eyes riveted on Dean, the dog was intimidating.

  “Brody, fuss,” Matt called.

  Brody jogged past Dean and fell into a heel position at Matt’s side. Shaking his head, Dean leaned under the raised hood of the pickup.

  Matt opened the cargo door and picked up the pittie. Cady opened the crate in the back, and Matt slid the dog inside and closed the door. The dog turned around once and curled up on an old towel.

  Matt lifted Brody into the rear seat of the van. “You’re not supposed to jump in and out of vehicles since you hurt your shoulder, but thanks for backing us up.”

  Brody wagged his tail.

  Matt and Cady climbed into the vehicle. Cady opened a bottle of hand sanitizer. Matt held out a hand, and she squirted some into his palm. The pittie was covered in filth and fleas, and Matt was glad they’d brought Cady’s vehicle.

  “Good thing one of us has people skills. That was masterful de-escalation,” Matt said as Cady pulled out onto the street. “You turned a potential confrontation into a positive encounter.” He had been ready to go all brawn, no brain.

  Cady laughed. “I’ve done this a few times.”

  “More than a few, I’m sure, and that worries me.” Matt glanced at his sister. Her profile was misleading. Her freckles made her look younger than thirty-three. But she’d been rescuing dogs for six years, since her disaster of a marriage and subsequent nasty divorce. Just thinking of that time made Matt’s hand curl into a fist as he remembered the satisfaction of plowing it into her ex’s face. But he didn’t bring it up. One, she didn’t know about that. She thought her ex had decided to stop stalking and harassing her on his own. And two, except for never dating, she seemed to have gotten past that terrible time.

  “You sound like Dad.” Cady shook her head. “I can handle myself, and I try not to do stupid things.”

  “I know.”

  “I called you tonight, right?”

  “You did,” he acknowledged. “And for that, I’m grateful, but you’re still my little sister.”

  Cady barked out a short laugh. “I’m hardly little, and I rarely run into problems. Most people don’t like seeing a dog mistreated. I’ve encountered some pretty badass dudes who got weepy or angry over an abused dog.”

  “But there are
plenty of assholes who don’t give a damn, like the one who left him with no food or water.” Matt glanced over the back seat at the crate containing the little pittie. Through the holes, he could see the dog was still curled up. He reached over the seat to give Brody a head scratch.

  Cady didn’t argue.

  A short while later, she drove back to Matt’s house. “So, can I keep him here until I can place him with a foster?”

  Matt rolled his eyes. “Of course. There’s an empty kennel. Why not fill it?”

  After Matt had recovered from his shooting, he’d bought the house and acreage and built the kennel with the intention of training K-9s, but his sister had immediately filled it with rescues. More than three years later, she was still keeping it full.

  “Thank you.” She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.

  “I’ll help you get him cleaned up.” Matt let Brody out of the van while Cady helped the pittie out of the crate.

  They walked toward the kennel. The door opened and a thin man stepped out. Matt had known Justin since childhood. Recently released from a drug rehab facility, his friend looked rough. But then, he’d weathered a car accident, a subsequent opioid addiction, and the murder of his estranged wife, during which he’d been shot and kidnapped. Justin was still standing, but there wasn’t much left of him. Emotionally, he was drained.

  “Hey, Justin.” Cady summed up the dog’s condition.

  Justin just nodded. He’d been unable to get a job since his release, so Matt had put him to work in the kennels. Dogs were the best therapy he could think of, and his friend needed to be occupied. Too much free time would not help him stay sober.

  Justin kneeled on the concrete and held out a hand to the pittie. The dog walked closer. Justin stroked his head, and the dog leaned on him.

  One wounded soul recognized another.

  Matt’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out. Bree. His heart did a happy little skip. Their relationship was still new and shiny, and he hadn’t adjusted to the effect just hearing her voice had on him. Did she want to see him tonight? “I need to take this call.”

  He stepped outside and answered the call. “Hi.”