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Dime-size hail grew to nickel and then quarter size and dimpled the mud flat all around September, increasing in velocity as she stared at the hand for an endless moment. Kinsler yelped when ice pinged off his head. Startled, September ducked her head and slogged back toward solid ground. Combs's storm arrived right on schedule.
A body. Or at least and arm and hand. Adult size. So, it's not Willie.
"Thank you, God." She breathed out in a rush, the relief palpable, but then guilt furrowed her brow. What kind of awful person gave thanks for a stranger's death? Somebody missed him, or maybe her. She couldn't tell the gender. She wouldn't dare try to move the body. The poor soul got caught in a flash flood. She had to call Combs.
Shadow woofed when September clambered up the embankment and set the smaller dog on the ground. The two dogs circled and jockeyed for position, each trying to sniff without being sniffed. September managed to attach each dog's collar to either end of the doubled up tracking line. That left one hand free while keeping the pair under control, or so she hoped.
"Ouch!" Hail pummeled her back, and September searched for any sort of shelter while fumbling in her pocket for the phone. A dark wall cloud threatened, classic preamble to funnel cloud activity, so she prepared herself for ditch-diving if something swooped out of the sky.
To the left, the dirt road led back to the highway, with no shelter in sight. September swung right. She scraped off as much muck as she could and put on her coat and boots, hating the clammy gritty sensation but needing the protection. "This way. Come on, let's go." She jollied the dogs into a trot, grateful when the size of the hail decreased but worried the lull in wind signaled worse to come. At least the drive canted downward. A low position in relation to the elevated highway should prove protective. They ran, and she fumbled for her phone to call Combs. He picked up on the first ring.
"You find Willie? Is he all right?"
She could hear the thunk and ping of hail from his end of the phone connection, but it had abated around her. "No. I found his dog, but not Willie. But there's a body."
He said something, but the words garbled. "...breaking up. Say again. What about Willie?" He barked the last words.
"Combs, I can't understand you. Have to take cover, it's bad here. Found a body but it's NOT your son."
She disconnected and pocketed the phone. Ahead, the narrow road dipped down toward a cement barn that clung to the side of a steep embankment. Three large green dumpsters butted against the near wall, while a cleared dirt space in front of the storage building held a dozen or more rusty metal barrels turned on their side as shelters, with a dog chained next to each.
September stopped short, recognizing the Pit Bulls and what that meant. She took half a step backwards when a couple of dogs noticed her and roused from their enforced boredom. Shadow barked, tail flagging, and pulled against the tether, eager to meet-and-greet all the potential canine friends.
"Shadow, no. Wait." Her voice whip-cracked the command. The Pit Bulls, none in good health, leaped or in some cases staggered to their feet. She noticed young ones also dragged logging chains they could barely lift.
She’d wager the rest of her lottery winnings they figured in the dogfight ring. Kinsler tugged at the leash, and another puzzle piece clicked into place, betting BeeBo’s rescued kitten came from here. Dog men used small pets to teach gladiator dogs to fight and kill. Or be killed.
Bile burned her throat. Her knees gave way, and she sat down, hard, in the middle of the road, rain no longer an issue. Shadow pushed himself into her arms, licking her face, and she buried her face in his black ruff.
September tried to call Combs again but couldn't get a signal. Sadly, animal abuse often wasn't enough to involve the police, but the attendant guns and gambling made dogfights worth their attention. Shutting down dogfights cast a wide net.
And drugs. She reeled with sudden insight. What a brilliant, twisted notion, to distribute the Doctor’s poisonous autism “cure” under the protection from a dogfight ring.
She pocketed the useless phone, and scrambled to her feet. Wind had died, hail had stopped, and a yellow-green sky colored the chained dogs in a hellish glow. Static crackled her hair into a Medusa’s crown, and all the dogs howled in sudden concert as if cued by a conductor’s baton.
She couldn’t see it, but the freight train sound signified a funnel cloud. She needed shelter, had to drop below the tree and road level. Inside the cement barn offered the best shelter.
The dogs strained against their chains, staked between her and sanctuary. Shadow and Kinsler couldn't pass without risking a bloody war they couldn't win.
"Good-dog, Shadow, stay with me." They were dead if they stayed on the road, if not from the twister, then from wind-tossed debris bulleted with enough strength to penetrate cement.
The roar increased. No more time. She had to risk threading a path past the Pit Bulls. They’d all die without shelter. September ran in a fast limp, sore knee hobbling her progress. She scooped Kinsler into her arms and shortened Shadow's leash to keep him close to her side.
A horn honked behind September. Startled, she whirled. Her own SUV hurtled down the dirt path straight toward her.
