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Miguel returns, just as the sun's setting and the air turns cold. Of course, I hear his truck first. But as soon the truck’s tires crunch over the gravel and the headlights spill through the windows, Annie and Molly hurry out from the house, where they’ve been heating up leftovers, to greet him.
His whole body seems to sag as he eases out of the truck and stretches, the lines in his face looking deeper than usual.
“How'd it go?” Annie asks, opening the back of the camper, where several dogs in crates are barking loudly.
“Good,” he says. “Long.” He sighs. “The pens ready?”
“Cleaned them out today.”
He limps around to the back of the truck. I heard him tell someone once that the limp comes from a wound he got in a place called “Nam” a long time ago. I've noticed it always seems to be worse first thing in the morning or when he’s tired.
He and Annie grab some leashes hanging just inside the camper and soon are leading out an energetic young black Lab and a beagle. They return to get another beagle and what looks like a German shepherd/Lab mix, both dogs holding their tails low with caution. I would like to greet them, but Molly keeps me out of the way.
After the new dogs are settled in their pens, we all go back to the house. Miguel grabs a beer, and then sinks onto one of dining room chairs as if his legs might not support him any longer. “So,” he says after a few sips. “Everything okay here?”
Annie shoots a glance at Molly, who goes rigid and holds her breath. Annie punches a key on the microwave and it starts to hum. “Yeah,” she says. “Pretty much.”
Miguel takes another few swallows and raises his eyebrows.
“We got this—” Annie fishes a paper from the stack of mail over on the small desk on the far wall and drops it on the table in front of him. “It was on the door yesterday.”
Miguel holds it up a second, then sets it down, his face expressionless.
“It says it's the last warning,” Annie says. “So there've been others?”
“Three,” Miguel says after a brief pause. “Started about six weeks ago.”
“Three!” Annie frowns, shocked. “Have you contacted the police?”
Miguel shrugs. “Don't think our local police force will be particularly interested. They’re all bought and paid for by Tommy Lou Goodfellow.” His mouth turns down as if he's just tasted something bitter, which I might think was the beer—a disgusting drink, if you ask me—but Miguel usually likes it.
Molly puts plates and silverware on the table, followed by cups and a pitcher of water. Annie carries over a large steaming bowl—baked beans by the fragrant scent, then returns for a plate of ham and a dish of what sadly smells like greens.
“Goodfellow?” Annie sits down and fills her glass from the pitcher. Molly plops down on her chair, but perches on the edge, nervous like a cat ready to jump. No idea why.
“Big time developer. Poured money into this county for the last ten years. He dropped by a few months ago and made me an offer for the place. Wants to turn these fields into quarter-acre luxury homes.” Miguel tips the bottle up and takes a few more swallows. “And naturally wants this place for a song.”
A song? Like the ones on the radio? I'm starting to get confused.
“I turned him down flat.”
I should think so. I don't know much about property, but I always thought people had to pay money, and—according to the boss when he's writing a check for the rent—a huge amount for it.
Miguel fingers the sweating bottle and sighs. “The letters started the next week. Don't think it was a coincidence, do you?”
Annie stares at him, concerned. “I had no idea. What are you going to do?”
He shakes his head. “Nothing tonight. I'm too tired to spit. Don't want to talk about it.” He helps himself to a thick slice of ham and half a plate full of the beans. He skips the greens, I notice. Miguel’s a smart man. “So, everything here went okay?”
Once again, Molly holds her breath, her eyes on the floor.
Annie pauses just a fraction of a second before saying, “Yeah. Fine.”
Molly, her head still down, takes a long, shaky breath. Then she looks Miguel in the eyes. “The dogs got out.” She gives Annie an anguished glance. “He has to know. Because if someone is doing this . . .”
“What do you mean got out?” Miguel asks sharply.
Molly explains about the dogs being in the field and the open gates.
Miguel's mouth sets into a firm line. “You weren't going to tell me?” he asks Annie angrily.
Annie's face darkens. “I. . .”
“She thought it was my fault,” Molly says, her words tumbling out in a rush. “That I didn't close things up well, but I'm sure I shut all the gates from the kennels to the outside pens. I double-checked every one. That means someone opened them. And probably opened the field gates as well. Maybe the person who wrote the note.” Molly turns to Annie. “I'm sorry. I know you didn't want to get me in trouble.”
Annie, her face still flushed, stares at the table without speaking. Molly dips her head, and when I touch my nose to her hand, I see her blink hard.
Miguel bites his lower lip, his gaze on the wall. Finally, he says to Annie, “Always tell me everything. Understand?”
Annie nods, looking like a pup who's just been scolded.
“Plus,” Molly keeps her eyes on Miguel, “Doodle and I found this.” She runs to the bedroom and returns with the bag holding the cigarette package and the cloth. Annie and Miguel study it for a moment.
“Lucky Strikes?” Miguel raises his eyebrows.
“I found it off to the side of the house. Where the woods go down the hill,” Molly says. “It could be from the guy—if it was a guy—who opened the gates.”
Miguel doesn’t say anything. Annie shakes her head. “That could be from anyone. Could be a year old.”
“It doesn’t look old,” Molly insists. “And it’d be all wet and faded if it was old.”
It doesn’t smell old either, but then, of course, none of them can know that.
Annie frowns at Molly’s empty plate. “Aren’t you going to eat anything? I’m sure your dad will have had dinner by the time I get you home.”
Molly sighs and takes a tiny spoonful of beans and cuts off a small piece of ham, which she eyes without enthusiasm.
No one speaks after that for a long time. Miguel and Annie finish their plates of food. Molly eats the cut piece of ham and then, when Miguel and Annie aren’t looking, slips the entire piece off her plate and into her hand, holding it under the table. I know the drill. I take it discreetly and chew silently.
Finally, Annie rises and clears her dishes. “We’d better get going. Molly has school tomorrow and I promised I’d get her home in time.”
Miguel nods, then stands up, holding the note. He drops it on the counter and smacks his hand down over it, his face grim. “I need to do something about this. Either way. Accident or not.”
Molly flushes and goes to the guest room to pack, while Miguel gets out his phone and starts making calls. By the time Molly comes back in, holding her backpack and her pillow, Miguel has talked to people about locks, security cameras, and burglar alarms.
“Thanks,” he says to Molly.
“Sorry about the dogs,” Molly says. “I really double-checked.”
“Doesn’t matter.” Miguel picks up her backpack and walks with us out to the van. “Whatever happened, it won’t happen again. I’ll see to that.” He thanks Annie and Molly again, and limps back to the house.
Annie’s already got the van’s engine on and the heater blasting. Molly puts me in the crate behind the front seat—it reeks of Annie’s dogs—and climbs in beside Annie.
As we pull away, Molly, her fingers madly twisting a strand of hair, says in a low voice, “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to get you in trouble with Miguel. I know you were being nice not to tell him.”
Annie adjusts the mirror and pats Molly on the knee. “Forget it,” she says briskly. “You were right. He needed to know. I should have told him.”
Despite her words, her voice sounds deeply unhappy. And both she and Molly remain silent the whole way back.
When we get home, the boss waves at us, holding his phone to his ear. He mouths the word “Madison”, then laughs in a funny sort of way.
Molly dumps her backpack in her room and then takes me outside, whipping out her own phone. Soon, she and Tanya are talking about a Spanish test, and then Molly tells Tanya how her dad is always calling Madison. “He’s talking to her right now,” Molly says miserably. “He says they text all the time.”
I inspect the house and back yard for intruders and naturally find cat scents along the fence, which I pee over as a warning, while Molly goes on to tell Tanya about the dogs getting out at Miguel’s. “I know I latched those gates,” she says. “But Annie and Miguel think I didn’t.”
After she talks to Tanya, Molly tries to call her mother, but only gets a message.
But then her phone chimes. “Hi, Mom,” Molly says, suddenly happier.
“Hi, Molly.” Cori's voice sounds genuinely pleased. “What's up?”
“Miguel had someone break into his barn.”
“What?” Cori's voice turns sharp.
Molly tells her about the dogs being loose, and how she was sure she shut everything up tight but Annie thought she hadn't, and how Miguel's getting notes because he's Mexican and, well, she goes on and on.
I've noticed that humans like to repeat things. Just look at their commands to dogs. It's never just “sit.” It's “Sit. Sit. Sit.” Know what I mean? Miguel and Annie don't do that when they train because they're better at communicating and they expect us dogs to listen the first time, but most people think if they've said something once, it's worth saying again and again. And again.
When Molly gets to the part about the cigarette package and the piece of cloth, Cori interrupts. “You know that probably couldn’t be used as evidence, right? It could have ended up there any time over the last few years.”
“It doesn’t look old,” Molly says in the same defiant voice she used with Miguel and Annie. “And it might help find whoever was there. Maybe it has fingerprints or DNA. Doodle acted like the scent was fresh.”
Cori sighs. “A defense attorney could have a field day with evidence collected like this. And then it’d have to be an important enough case to justify the expense of having it analyzed for fingerprints or DNA. Sorry.”
Molly doesn’t answer for a few moments. “Couldn’t you take it anyway—just in case?” she pleads. “Isn’t it kind of against the law to threaten someone because of their race?”
Now it’s Cori’s turn to be silent. Finally, she says, “Hate crimes are against the law, but you still need proof. Bring me what you have when you come over on Friday and I’ll see what I can do. But no promises.” She pauses, and then says in a happier tone, “I can’t wait to see you!”
This cheers Molly considerably until we go back inside where the boss is still talking to Madison. Molly scowls and goes to her room, me at her side.
She gets out the baggie with the cigarette package and cloth, stares at it for a long time before carefully places it on the top shelf in her closet. Then, she brushes her teeth, changes into her pajamas, and crawls into bed without saying a word to the boss.