Page 65 of A Matter of Pedigree
“No problem,” he said.
Maybe no problem, thought Carole, maybe otherwise. “And Gary,” she added, “be real careful, okay?”
When Frank came back with Poopsie, they all three settled on the sofa to watch a Netflix movie; Polly had withdrawn to her room to write notes and make calls to some of her friends in France. Carole wasn’t looking forward to going to bed; she was afraid she’d have trouble sleeping, so she stayed up after Frank yawned a few times and declared he was turning in. She watchedThe Late Show, made it through the monologue, but the guest was Rachel Maddow and she couldn’t take that woman, so she gave up and brushed her teeth, took a few Tylenol PMs, and headed to bed.
It was no good; every time she closed her eyes, she replayed the frightening attack. The way the guy grabbed her from behind, catching her by surprise, and the way he’d pushed her down on the stairs. She remembered the look in his eyes and the way his weight pressed down on her, on her neck, and the overwhelming sense of fear that had flooded every cell in her body. It wasn’t just in her mind, either; she felt her breaths coming in short pants and her stomach contracting and her legs itching to move. She checked the clock; it was one in the morning, so she got up and peed and took a couple more tablets, even did some yoga stretches. That seemed to work, and she drifted off for a few hours, but at four o’clock she was awake again, and she knew she’d never get back to sleep. She went out to the living room and curled up on the couch with a couple of pillows, an afghan, and one of Polly’s French magazines. A few minutes later, Poopsie appeared, stretching and yawning and shaking her collar.
Why not, thought Carole. At least walking would relieve the cramps and tingly sensations in her legs. So she slipped back through the bedroom and into her California Closets walk-in, where she got into her track suit and clunky, dog-walking boots. Back in the living room, she went to the door, where she clipped the leash onto Poopsie’s collar.
Outside, the air was fresh and cool. It was a clear night; the sky had lightened from black to deep azure, dotted with stars and a silver sliver of moon. Maybe she was crazy to be out alone, but she wasn’t going to live in fear, not her. Not when it felt so darn good to move and breathe the fresh, clean, early-morning air. She loped up the hill and turned onto Smith Street. Nobody was out this early; there was only an occasional car, probably somebody coming off the night shift or heading in for an early-morning job. The lights were on at Dunkin’ Donuts, so Carole walked that way and ducked inside with Poopsie to get a coffee. The guy behind the counter, still groggy himself, didn’t seem to mind about the dog. Then, coffee in hand, she continued along Smith Street and down Caverly, past Frank-O’s apartment building. He ought to be coming home soon, she thought, sending up a heartfelt prayer of gratitude. For Frank-O and for herself. It could have been so much worse.
Then she was down by the river, and the sky was brightening, blue giving way to gray, and Poopsie was in hunting mode, nose to the ground and tail straight back, on the prowl for fowl. Carole smiled at her little joke; it felt good to be strong and alive, keeping pace with the dog. For once, she wasn’t pulling and yanking at the leash; they were moving together in the same groove, covering ground as the sky gradually took on a rosy tint and Carole found herself, once again, at the Factory.
Chapter Twenty
Carole wasn’t about to go wandering through the fenced construction site, even though the chain-link gate was wide open. It was still pretty dark, for one thing, and as a contractor’s wife, she knew such places could be dangerous. As numerous signs advised, it was a hard-hat area, meaning that an individual could fall into an open sewer or get hit on the head by a falling timber. Accidents happened; workers occasionally got hurt when unstable scaffolding collapsed, ditches caved in, or heavy machinery toppled over.
She stood for a moment with Poopsie, surveying the site, which had a stark beauty in the early-morning light. The rosy sky was reflected in the new windows of the apartment building, and the black, twisted branches of the leafless trees were a dramatic contrast to the lightening sky. But the empty shell of the burned building was an unpleasant reminder of the fire that sent shivers down her spine.
“C’mon, let’s go home,” she urged Poopsie, giving the leash a little tug.
Poopsie planted her legs and pulled against the leash, straining to go through the gate.
“Come!” ordered Carole, in her best obedience-class voice.
As usual, it made absolutely no impression on Poopsie. She was pulling against the leash as hard as she could, looking for all the world like a ridiculously undersized sled dog.
“Breakfast!” said Carole, employing one of Poopsie’s favorite words. “I’ve got bacon for you.”
Poopsie wasn’t the least bit interested in bacon; she was interested in something on the construction site and was bound and determined to check it out. She gave one last heroic tug, and the plastic catch on her rhinestone collar snapped, throwing Carole off balance and right onto her bottom. Poopsie was a white blur, racing through the construction site with her nose to the ground and her tail up.
Carole was furious and frustrated. “Poopsie!” she yelled, stamping her foot, but she might as well have called the wind or tried to halt the tide. Poopsie had a mind of her own, and she wasn’t going to give up the chase when every microscopic fiber of DNA, carefully refined through decades of selective breeding, was telling her to follow that alluring, irresistible scent, whatever it was.
Carole sighed and looked down at the broken collar and leash. The dog trainer had warned her about this, recounting horror stories of dogs that broke free and ran across train tracks and superhighways with predictable results, and even dogs that ran until they got themselves lost or dropped from exhaustion. Fortunately for her, the site was fenced, but it was enormous, covering acres of riverside property. The only way she had any chance of recovering Poopsie was to follow her. And now, she could see much better since the sun was rising, and, with luck, she wouldn’t stumble into an open drainage ditch or step on any live wires.
She picked her way carefully, stepping over rocks and scrap wood and broken bottles, the wind-tossed discarded snack bags and dead leaves here and there. The air still smelled sharp and sooty from the fire. She was headed in the direction she’d last seen the dog taking, running past the burned-out building and the almost finished apartment building, deep into the heart of the complex. Carole scanned the area, looking through the neat rows of coiled tubing and pallets of brick and shingles, hoping for a glimpse of white tail. She called the dog’s name a few times, but soon gave that up, realizing she was yelling into the wind, which carried her voice in the wrong direction.
She was down by the river now; she could see a little flock of ducks paddling along. Just the sort of thing Poopsie loved, but she was nowhere to be seen in the trees and undergrowth that lined the banks. Carole turned around, unsure whether she should continue into unfamiliar terrain or just retrace her steps, when she heard a single, sharp bark. Poopsie!
The sound seemed to come from one of the little temporary structures Frank was using as storage sheds, so she trotted toward it; as she drew closer, she noticed a Chase and Mooney stake truck with its engine running. Odd, she thought, so early in the morning. Very odd. She could see the CAPOBIANCOsign clear as day over the door of the shed, which she now realized was wide open.
Frank would never, ever leave a storage shed unlocked; that was something she had no doubt about. Plumbing fittings were expensive. In addition to the copper pipe, there were dozens of fancy Bye-Bye Toilets, each worth over a thousand dollars. There was no way he would leave such valuable material in an open shed, available for any scavenger who happened by. Or for a rival contractor like Chase and Mooney, who could cut costs by stealing from the Capobiancos. Deeply suspicious, Carole ducked down behind a pallet of bricks and waited, watching to see what was going on.
She didn’t have to wait long before Mitch Chase and another man—a man in a black hoodie who looked a lot like the guy who attacked her in the stairwell and who happened to be limping—appeared in the doorway, carrying a bundle of pipe between them that they heaved into the truck. It landed with a tremendous racket; they weren’t at all concerned about making a lot of noise. Carole’s jaw dropped; she could hardly believe what she was seeing. How low could people go? Mitch Chase was supposed to be a friend—a business rival, sure, but somebody who grew up in Providence, just like Frank, and went to the same schools, starting with kindergarten. They both played on the same high school football team, for God’s sake. And even though Frank had made sure he’d gotten a contract for a big part of the project, the HVAC, here he was, stealing Frank’s copper pipe, and she gasped in shock, watching as the two carefully heaved a boxed Bye-Bye Toilet onto the truck.
She was reaching for her cell phone to call Frank and alert him to what was happening when Poopsie suddenly appeared, coming around the corner of the building. Tony and his accomplice didn’t notice the dog; they were heading back inside the shed to pilfer more stuff, so Carole peeked out from behind the bricks and tried to catch the dog’s attention by whispering and waving.
Poopsie saw her—she stopped in her tracks and looked directly at Carole—but decided to ignore her whispers and frantic gestures. Instead of coming like a good dog, she continued around to the rear of the stake truck and jumped onto the tailgate. Carole sent up a quick little prayer for heavenly protection and dashed toward the truck, intending to grab Poopsie and get the hell out of there before Mitch and his accomplice came back.
She wasn’t fast enough. She’d just reached the truck when they appeared in the doorway. “Hey!” yelled Mitch, dropping his end of the bundle of pipe, making a huge clatter.
Carole figured her best option was to play dumb blonde. “My dog ran away; she’s in your truck!” she exclaimed, holding up the leash. “Her collar broke, and she got away from me.”
“Oh, yeah?” said Mitch. He sounded suspicious and was coming closer.
“Wow, Mitch! I’m so glad to see you,” said Carole, her heart thudding like a runaway train. “Can you help me get the dog?”
“Sure,” said Mitch, taking the leash.
